These notes are neither commentary nor response

They are a sustained act of dwelling beside the way light comes into being within language.

Beside a kind of writing that does not seek brilliance, but duration.

A sentence that begins in the middle of a breath and ends where the image ceases to be visible and becomes lived instead.

They were written out of a desire to move closer:

closer to the moment that asks for no grand gesture, only a subtle shift of meaning

closer to a photograph that does not arrest the world but lets it recede softly into a blue tinted memory

closer to a word that understands its strength lies not in naming, but in touching.

Writing, here, is a form of vigilance. A quiet labor of light upon the matter of experience.

It is not concerned with narrative, but with the tension between what is seen and what is barely intuited.

With melancholy not as weight, but as a way of seeing

With nostalgia not as return, but as deepening.

These notes resist closure.

They do not hurry toward resolution.

They remain in the half light, where the photograph is still trembling and the word is only just learning how to breathe.

They trace a process:

the making of an image

the forming of a line

the slow emergence of tenderness toward what is small and passing.

And because origin is never silent, because language remembers the soil of its first syllables, these notes will move between Polish and English:

not as translation, but as tide.

As if one shore whispered światło, and the other answered light; as if czułość could not fully dissolve into tenderness, nor melancholia entirely into melancholy.

They will remain slightly interwoven, gently displaced, carrying the accent of where they began.

If they hold any meaning, it is only as an extension of a gaze.

As a quiet jeszcze, a lingering still, that allows something to remain.