Every time I visit the doctor, I freeze.
The questions come like clockwork: “Do you drink?” “Do you smoke?” And I stumble.
I’m a college student. Of course I do. What’s strange is that these are things I do openly, even proudly. But under the sterile glow of fluorescent lights, I shrink. I lie. They ask because these habits can harm you, even kill you. It’s not judgment—it’s protocol. But it feels like judgment nonetheless. And so, I hide the truth.
It’s a paradox: The very things that make us feel alive—the reckless decisions, the temporary highs—are often the choices that slowly destroy us, and we choose them anyway. Maybe that’s what makes us human. Or maybe that’s what makes us tragic.
I captured these five photos over several days, watching as the flowers bloomed, wilted, and died. Each one was carefully arranged to appear as if it were growing from a vice—beauty rooted in something destructive. As each flower moves from one vice to the next, it initially grows but ultimately withers. The vices don’t just hold it—they slowly kill it. The bright white background and saturated colors mimic the style of product photography, with little shadow and a flat look. These idealized vices are sold to us, packaged in polish, envy and allure. It’s only when the damage becomes irreversible that we start to see the truth for what it is.
