The chirping of birds.
The rustling of a bamboo broom.
The slow footsteps of a few monks on their alms round.

Cars gliding quickly down the empty street.
The pale yellow of the streetlights.

“Don’t take pictures of pigeons.”

That morning, I woke up when the sky was still dim, barely breaking light. Everyone else was still lost in their dreams. I had a light breakfast, slung my backpack over my shoulder, carried my camera, and wandered into the old town.

The cafés were still closed, their doors shut tight in silence. Along the street, the soft golden light from the lamps lingered, not yet ready to fade into day. Every now and then, I caught sight of young monks in saffron robes, holding their alms bowls.

The stillness of early dawn made the sound of birdsong all the clearer and the sweeping of a bamboo broom brushing over dry leaves echoed softly along the street. A few cars sped down the empty road, not hurried, but steady, slicing through the stillness of dawn, as if craving a sound, however fleeting, just to feel a little less alone.

By the riverside, in front of Tha Phae Gate, a few silhouettes began to appear – people who woke early to enjoy the rare cool air and the quiet only found when the world is still asleep. The sky was lightening, revealing a pale blue tinged with soft pink. The water lay still, perfectly mirroring the green willow trees.

The pigeons were busy pecking at their first meal of the day. I wondered, did they prefer this peaceful hour, or the liveliness of the crowds later on?

“Don’t take pictures of pigeons.”

A white man on a bicycle passed by, saying it gently when he saw me fiddling with my film camera.

My hands loosened. At that moment, taking photos suddenly felt unnecessary. Some moments are already complete simply by sitting still and watching. Even the quietest click of a camera shutter could startle the pigeons.

And somehow, I realized: no camera can ever capture beauty more truthfully than one’s own eyes.

That man’s words reminded me of the brief conversation between Walter and Sean.

“Walter Mitty: Are you going to take it?
Sean O’Connell: Sometimes I don’t. If I like a moment, for me, personally,I don’t like to have the distraction of the camera. I just want to stay in it.
Walter Mitty: Stay in it?
Sean O’Connell: Yeah. Right there. Right here.”

The secret life of Walter Mitty

---

For a brief moment, I realized that I didn’t want to belong to anyone or anywhere. Wat Chedi Luang, I paid 40 Baht for the entrance ticket, only to sit here, under the shade of the trees, blankly watching tourists dressed in all sorts of bright, floral clothes, flashing wide smiles in front of their cameras.

In truth, before stumbling upon this peaceful refuge, I had already wandered around and taken a few photos, perhaps with only one purpose: to remind my future self that I once set foot here.

Gazing at the temple, which was built six centuries ago and now stands tall between heaven and earth, all I could feel was its ancient, moss-covered beauty. The intricate Lanna-style carvings remain visible, though parts of the structure have long been ruined by natural disasters and cannon fire. And in that very moment, I realized I was no different from someone merely skimming the surface – admiring appearances while forgetting the essence beneath them.

The origins, the culture, the history, the stories, the people, the spiritual values behind this temple – I barely knew any of it. What meaning could the photos I took possibly hold, if they can’t even tell their own story to those who wish to listen?

My intention to visit temples in Chiang Mai slowly faded away, just as I told Julien that day. “I don’t want to visit temples when I haven’t yet learned about their history. Perhaps this time, I should only travel with one purpose – to understand myself better.”

(to be continued)