Personal Sakura Reflections
Sakura, the cherry blossoms of Japan, bloom each spring for only a brief moment. Their beauty lies in that transience—so delicate, so short-lived, and yet unforgettable. In their final moments, they seem to dance with the wind, carried by an unseen destiny. I feel the breeze brush against my skin, and for a moment, I’m simply a quiet witness to nature’s rhythm, allowed just a fleeting glimpse of its gentle, endless poetry.
Cherry blossoms are most celebrated when they’re in full bloom, when parks are filled with people gathering beneath them. Yet I love them just as much in the seasons when they’re not in the spotlight. From the fresh green of early summer leaves to the deeper shades of midsummer, and then to the vibrant yellows and reds of autumn, the seasons create a living tapestry of colour.
Each season has its own kind of beauty. I like how insects nibble at the leaves, turning them into little works of art, and how no two leaves are ever quite the same in shape, colour or pattern. When they finally fall and crunch softly under my feet, I feel a simple joy. The moment a leaf falls is incredibly quiet—a kind of pause in time. It’s not a sound, but a silence I can feel, and it’s a silence I love. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy painting too; it holds the same quiet mystery. The stillness of seeing and creating often inspires ideas for my music.
I admire how the cherry trees endure the cold of winter, and how their buds slowly swell with the coming of spring. The petals themselves are so fragile, a soft pink that seems to carry its own quiet grace.
Being aware of endings somehow makes the present feel sharper. When life casts shadows, the light seems even more brilliant. Opposites bring out each other’s beauty—motion and stillness, sound and silence, presence and absence, fullness and emptiness. Thinking about death makes life feel more alive. It reminds me that what we take for granted is never truly guaranteed.
Light is born from shadow, joy deepens through sorrow, and the fleeting bloom of spring feels eternal only because winter once held its breath.
