Earlier this morning I was overcome with a sense of meaninglessness. Nothing I did mattered, nothing I could do would have any effect on anything. I’ve been thinking about what the purpose of life is for as long as I can remember, and the universe sadly denies me this luxury. Part of the journey is simply going out and trying to find (or perhaps “create” is a better word to use) some shred of meaning in something, anything. That’s why art is so therapeutic, because it gives me something to commit myself to. It’s not something that I do and instantly feel relief. It’s a feeling that I need to fight for, every single day. When I make a good photograph it’s never the success of a single instance where I’ve manipulated the camera to do exactly what I want, it’s the result of months of trying and failing. It’s the result of a long battle with myself, to get myself out of bed and onto the streets. Most of the time my fight is in vain, but most of the time I’m also trying to believe in something that’s only ever a half truth. To fight for the idea that there is beauty in the world. This can’t be true 100% of the time or there would be no reason to make art, we would all just believe it the same way we believe that the sky is blue. But it’s the act of fighting for this belief that makes me happy. I don’t always win the fight, but every once in awhile I do make a photograph which I believe has the potential to help myself as well as others. And that’s what I need to keep at the forefront of my mind. Not my lack of ability in the current moment, but to remember that it’s only a numbers game. If you spend forty hours trying to take a good picture, and find beauty in the world, then you’ll get a good one.