Silence on the Fourth of July
Searching for quiet moments as the world explodes
As an American, I was supposed to feel patriotic yesterday.
It was the 91,311th time the sun rose over a country called America.
Two hundred and fifty years! YAY!
Let’s blow up the world.
I’d be there to document it. My plan: hit the streets with my camera and a tripod to document how my fellow Americans were celebrating.
But my heart wasn’t into it.
As people all around me were laughing, singing, and displaying their flags dressed as Uncle Sam, I felt disconnected.
I put my camera away and almost went home, disgusted with myself for not completing this little “project” of mine.
Then, I noticed a strange and much quieter area near me:
I was mesmerized.
So much of my photography is guided by emotion, and I felt something real as I walked these haunted neighborhoods.
I kept asking myself: what does it mean to be an American patriot in 2026?
Is something wrong with me if I don’t feel like shouting: “Team America: FUCK YEAH!”
Why was I exploring empty streets, alone, relentlessly looking away from the exploding horizon?
I don’t know the answer to these questions.
But I think the answer’s here. Hidden in the monochromatic night.
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