We fled to a field made from purple lavender. We smelled like heaven and the earth beneath our feet felt like the sky. With flowers in our hands and our breath drenched in wild wine, we tried to make sense of it all. She put a bunch of flowers in her pocket and she ran away, almost like she was teasing me.

It always boiled down to this teasing dance, between flowers and poetry, a girl stuck in my dreams, and this longing to be a part of something much bigger. We taunted ourselves with the image of it all, lavender hanging from the roof drying out in a kitchen in which we could see time move slowly. We wondered what the meaning of it all was, and we tried to make sense of the present that drenched us in her allure. But we only wrote about it, in the heavens, with our fingertips smelling of lavender.

Our fingertips wrote wonderful lies in the sky, and we taught ourselves to love the imperfections that danced around us. We found resolve in the flowers that we picked, only to realise that they too will soon die. But this death is something beautiful, as the flowers will either dry out and be used as decorations - getting a new life - or they will be used in tea - also getting a short new breath of life before their ultimate demise.

We wrote poetry with our stinking hands. The fields became our bed in which lay down to dream of other times. Of olden days where things were less complicated, less pressured, less busy. We dreamt of our youth that reeked of lavender, that smelled of careless beauty. Only to realise that we have to stand up, to face the music of daily life...

In the end, we woke up from the most beautiful dream, still drunk on its effects, its allure, its promise. We tried to close our eyes to go back, but we were awake by now, realising that we will need to breathe the stale air and write the words that no one will read.

But our fingers smelled of lavender...

Happy photographing, and keep well!