mythoughtsintextsandimages

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

The boy ran straight out of the golden hour like joy had a deadline.

You can almost hear the splash, feel the moss-soft bank under your toes, taste the sugar-warm juice box abandoned mid-laugh. His friend doesn’t even flinch—just grins wider, a sentinel of summer’s unbreakable spell. Behind them, the mountain watches with the patience of someone who’s seen every version of this moment before. The running. The laughing. The impossible light.

Maybe it’s the glacier in the background or maybe it’s just how loud happiness gets when there’s water involved, but this feels like a memory no one will forget even if they never took the photo.

Somewhere between barefoot and soaked, they figured out the secret: don’t wait for the perfect time to jump in. Just run like it already started without you.

🧺 Recipe: 

Sun-Warmed Berry Splash Punch

A drink for barefoot afternoons by the water.

Ingredients:

500ml (2 cups) mixed berries (strawberries, raspberries, blueberries)

750ml (3 cups) water

1 lemon, sliced

1 tbsp honey or agave syrup

Ice cubes

Mint sprigs (optional)

1 juice box (any fruity kid-favorite—think nostalgic)

Instructions:

In a small pot, simmer berries and 250ml (1 cup) water until softened (5–8 minutes).

Mash gently and strain into a jug.

Add the rest of the water, lemon slices, honey, and stir.

Drop in the ice, swirl in the juice box for chaos and charm.

Serve with grass on your legs and laughter on standby.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

Two boys suspended between dusk and motion, between gravity and grace. One kneels in offering, the other steps forward—not up, not down, but into. It’s not a dance and not a play, but some quiet ritual they seem to remember together. There’s no audience but the sea, no music but the hush of light changing.

And yet you can feel it: this is an old gesture. A myth reenacted in bare feet. Maybe they’re gods in rehearsal. Maybe they’re brothers practicing how to hold and let go.

There’s no climax here—just the poise of trust, the liturgy of limbs, the secret exchange of balance.

I keep thinking: what if this is how we help each other rise?

Ritual Loaf with Sea Salt & Honey

A dense, yielding loaf to share at twilight—meant to be torn, not sliced.

Ingredients:

500g (3 ¾ cups) bread flour

10g (2 tsp) fine sea salt

1 sachet (7g) dry yeast

325ml (1 ⅓ cups) lukewarm water

2 tbsp runny honey

Flaky sea salt to finish

Olive oil for brushing

Instructions:

In a large bowl, combine flour, salt, and yeast (keeping salt and yeast on opposite sides at first). Add honey and water, stirring until a sticky dough forms.

Knead for 10 minutes on a lightly oiled surface until smooth and elastic.

Place in a lightly oiled bowl, cover, and let rise in a warm place for 1 hour or until doubled in size.

Shape into an oval or two smaller round loaves. Place on a baking sheet and rest under a cloth for 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 220°C / 425°F. Brush loaves with olive oil and sprinkle with flaky salt.

Bake for 25–30 minutes or until golden and hollow-sounding when tapped.

Let cool slightly. Serve warm, torn open by hand, dipped in oil, or passed from palm to palm like a promise.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

The boy writes slowly, carefully, as if the words themselves might slip away if not caught with both hands. He leans in, the marble table cool beneath his arms, the air tinted gold by the arched glass canopy above. Around him, velvet chairs wait like patient readers. Books line the alcoves, some real, some placed there by a set designer long ago and forgotten.

But just behind the mimosa blooms — the yellow ones that always smell like memory — another boy watches. He doesn’t interrupt. Not yet. He watches like someone waiting for the exact right moment in a story to enter. A shadow with a grin. A punctuation mark.

Somewhere in this corridor café that seems half-museum, half-dream, the page is being written in real time.

You can almost hear the sentence forming: “He didn’t know he was being watched.”

Or maybe: “This was the afternoon everything changed, though neither of them knew it yet.”

—

📚

We’ve talked before about memory cafés, but this one is a bit more precise — it’s a memory-in-progress café. The kind where one boy is always writing and the other is always just about to say something important. The light never quite dims. The flowers never quite wilt. The story always starts again.

✨ Story-Catcher's Lemon Thyme Tartlets

Ingredients:

180g (1½ cups) plain flour

90g (6 tbsp) cold unsalted butter, cubed

1 tbsp sugar

1 egg yolk

1–2 tbsp ice water

2 large eggs

80ml (⅓ cup) lemon juice

Zest of 1 lemon

100g (½ cup) caster sugar

60g (¼ cup) unsalted butter, melted

1 tsp fresh thyme leaves

Pinch of salt

Method:

Make the pastry: Combine flour, butter, and sugar. Rub until it resembles crumbs. Add yolk and water to form a dough. Chill 30 minutes.

Roll and press into tartlet tins. Bake blind at 180°C (350°F) for 15 minutes.

Whisk eggs, sugar, lemon juice, zest, butter, thyme, and salt. Pour into shells.

Bake 15–18 minutes or until just set. Cool, then dust with icing sugar if desired.

To serve: Place one tartlet beside a notebook and a cup of warm herbal tea. Eat slowly, as if every bite were part of a paragraph.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

You ever shout so hard the rain listens?

There’s a kind of thunder only kids can make. Not the sky kind — the barefoot, orange-shirted, soaked-to-the-bone kind. The kind that leaps from the middle of the street in a swirl of chalk spirals and cape rips. He’s airborne here, mid-yell, mid-flight, in a world that still believes puddles might hide portals. The umbrella behind him gave up hours ago, flung into the wind like it saw the storm coming and opted out.

And there’s that paper boat — drifting past like it knows it was never the hero of this story.

This isn’t joy, not exactly. It’s louder than joy. It’s declaration. It’s resistance in denim and wet feet. It’s the defiance of a child declaring: I am still here, and maybe always will be, no matter how many grown-ups try to mop him into memory.

↳ We’ve seen this boy before. He’s the one who caught lightning in a juice box. Who mapped out entire cities in sidewalk chalk. Who once tried to outrun the sunset and nearly made it.

We owe him the sky.

Paperstorm Street Cake

Ingredients:

200g (1 ⅔ cups) plain flour

100g (½ cup) brown sugar

2 tsp baking powder

½ tsp cinnamon

¼ tsp salt

125ml (½ cup) melted butter

2 eggs

150ml (⅔ cup) buttermilk or yoghurt

1 tsp vanilla

Zest of 1 orange

1 handful of crushed chalky meringue or white chocolate chunks

Optional: edible gold flakes, for “puddle shimmer”

Method:

Preheat oven to 175°C (350°F). Line a loaf or small cake tin.

Whisk flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon.

In another bowl, mix eggs, melted butter, vanilla, zest, and buttermilk.

Combine wet and dry mixtures. Fold in chalky bits.

Pour into tin, bake 30–35 min until golden and springy.

Cool while it rains. Slice when the sky clears a little.

To eat: barefoot, with cape on. Preferably in the middle of a chalked sidewalk. Let crumbs fall like lightning seeds.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

The rules were always simple: chalk it fast before the sun goes down, jump when the pigeons take off, and never, ever land on the last square unless you mean it.

He doesn’t mean to hover. Not really. But there’s something about this rooftop hour—the golden air, the blur of wings, the electricity in his sneakers—that makes gravity feel like a negotiable suggestion.

What begins as hopscotch becomes a dare. The chalk says RUN. The chalk says FLY. And for a second, he does.

They won’t believe him at school. Doesn’t matter. The birds saw. The rooftop knows. The sky blinked.

Rooftop Uplift Cake

Ingredients:

180g (1 ½ cups) all-purpose flour

150g (¾ cup) caster sugar

½ tsp baking soda

Pinch of salt

125ml (½ cup) buttermilk

2 eggs

120ml (½ cup) olive oil

Zest of 1 orange

1 tsp vanilla extract

A handful of edible flower petals (violet, marigold, or pansy)

Optional: 2 tbsp pigeon-wing courage (sub with lavender if unavailable)

Method:

Preheat oven to 175°C / 350°F. Grease a small round pan.

In a large bowl, whisk together flour, sugar, baking soda, and salt.

In another, mix buttermilk, eggs, oil, zest, and vanilla.

Combine wet and dry, stir until just smooth.

Fold in petals like you're folding in a secret.

Bake 30–35 mins. Cool on rooftop (optional but spiritually required).

To serve:

Eat barefoot, on warm asphalt. Look up between bites. Share with pigeons. If you feel yourself lift—don’t worry. That’s just the chalk spell kicking in.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

He eats the apple slowly, like it knows something.

The kite never flew.

But it didn’t matter—he wasn’t chasing wind today. He was chasing stillness. The kind of hush that only exists between the ocean and a sunset, when everything stops pretending.

He kneels in the sand like he’s in conversation with the sun, holding an apple that drips like a secret, gazing out as if the sky might answer him back.

This isn’t a picture of action.

This is a picture of pause—

of a boy whose thoughts weigh just enough to make him still.

Maybe the kite is a symbol.

Maybe the apple is memory.

Or maybe it’s just a moment that asked to be quiet for once.

And he said yes.

Apple-Kissed Shore Crumble

Ingredients

3 tart red apples (peeled, chopped)

2 tbsp brown sugar

Pinch of sea salt

1/2 tsp cinnamon

Zest of half an orange

1/4 cup oat flour

3 tbsp cold butter, cubed

Handful crushed almond biscuits or granola

Optional: a few drops of sea water for ritual purposes (do not eat)

Method

Preheat oven to 180°C.

Toss apples in sugar, salt, and cinnamon. Let them sit in a warm bowl like a memory steeping.

Mix flour and butter with fingertips till crumbly. Add biscuits. Scatter over apples in a small dish.

Bake until golden and bubbling—about the time it takes the sun to dip.

To eat it right: Sit barefoot, even if you're indoors. Let the crumble cool just slightly. Take a bite and remember something you never said aloud. Drift a little.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

Some evenings stretch themselves thin like taffy, all gold streetlight and scraped knees. This was one of them.

They weren’t supposed to be out, not this far, not this late. But the alley behind the bakery always called to them like a secret chord. He’d taped a glitter star to his hoodie (“Space General,” he insisted), and she wore the cape they’d dyed with rust and tea (“Time Witch,” obviously). There was no plan—only puddles, the squelch of boots, the occasional war cry. Every echo was a spell. Every step was a kind of proof that childhood might be magic, not because adults forget, but because kids really believe the pavement will hold them up if they run hard enough.

They didn’t notice the light changing. They didn’t notice anything but the next splash.

(They never asked where the gold came from, only if there’d be more.)

✴ Alleylight Toffee Apples

Ingredients:

4 crisp apples

200g light brown sugar

100ml golden syrup

2 tbsp butter

Pinch of salt

Edible glitter (optional, obviously not optional)

Instructions:

Skewer each apple and set aside.

In a saucepan, combine sugar, syrup, butter, and salt. Heat until bubbling and golden.

Quickly dip each apple into the toffee, twirling to coat.

Sprinkle with edible glitter before the toffee sets. Let cool on parchment.

To eat: Outside, ideally. After dusk but before full dark. With one hand sticky and the other cupped to catch the stars.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

The boy stood there long after the camera had supposedly stopped recording. Two chairs. One river. A helmet in his hand like it might remember something he didn’t.

We’re not told who the other seat was for. A parent? A brother? A ghost? Maybe no one ever sat there, but he needed to believe someone had. That once, there were two of them, parallel in silence and sun. That someone else had loved the river too.

It’s the kind of memory you don’t quite have, but it keeps checking in on you anyway.

The tape glitches. The timestamp is stuck. Play is greater than pause.

Somewhere in the shimmer between frames, he asks: Which one of you was mine?

Was it the chair, the shadow, the moment before the sun touched water?

We never hear the answer. But the grass holds the shape of both chairs like it’s still hoping they’ll be filled again.

Recipe Title: Riverbank Memory Cake

Ingredients:

200g almond flour (for the past that lingers)

3 eggs (because time breaks into thirds)

100g sugar (not too sweet)

50g melted butter (like low sun across water)

1 tsp vanilla (nostalgia in liquid form)

A pinch of salt (for the question left hanging)

Lemon zest (for the sharp edge of memory)

Method:

Preheat oven to 170°C. Line a small round tin — something you'd use for a cake shared by two.

Beat eggs and sugar until pale, like the sky right before dusk.

Stir in almond flour, butter, vanilla, salt, and zest until smooth.

Pour into the tin. Bake for 30–35 mins until golden and just firm at the edges, but soft in the middle.

To eat: Slice it warm, just as the sun goes down. Place two chairs beside each other—leave one empty. Eat in silence, facing the horizon. Let the cake crumble like old film.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

Some evenings fold up the world so gently you don’t notice you’re at the edge of it.

They didn’t speak much—not because they were angry, or scared, or lost—but because the hill understood them better than language could.

She walked behind him, not following, exactly. Just… staying close to whatever made the silence feel less heavy. The horizon kept bending, trying to hold them both.

There’s something about the hour before full darkness—when the light is thin and blue and absolutely honest. It’s when you remember things you didn’t mean to keep: a voice saying “wait,” the shape of your brother’s back when he didn’t turn around, the way grass brushes your hands like it remembers you.

They’re not running away. They’re not going home. They’re doing that in-between thing, which is its own kind of brave.

Recipe: Indigo Dusk Porridge

Ingredients

1 cup steel-cut oats

2 ½ cups water + ½ cup oat milk

A handful of frozen blueberries

1 tbsp maple syrup

Pinch of sea salt

Crushed lavender (edible-grade, optional)

Thick swirl of dark berry compote or blackcurrant jam

Crushed almonds or flaxseed for grounding

Instructions

In a saucepan, combine oats, water, and salt. Simmer on low for 25–30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

As the oats thicken, stir in oat milk and blueberries. Let them burst and dye the porridge deep violet.

Remove from heat, stir in maple syrup and lavender if using.

Spoon into a wide bowl. Add a dramatic swirl of jam and a scatter of something crunchy for texture.

How to eat it: Eat this with the window open and your back to the room. Taste it slow, like dusk folding over the hills. Share with someone who doesn’t need to talk right now.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

The fog doesn't hide you, it just makes you quieter to yourself.

Two boys walk opposite directions across a damp stone bridge, their reflections whispering more than they do. One wears modern trainers and a hoodie, fingers curled near his mouth. The other—cap, wool socks, something borrowed from a hundred years ago—stares at the ground like he's memorizing the sadness.

Behind them, the graffiti reads like a spell you’re only allowed to hear when you're small enough to need it:

“YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST BOY TO FEEL THIS WAY.”

And maybe that’s the whole weather today—soft rain, borrowed clothes, the ache of being not-first and still hurting like you invented the feeling.

It feels like a message from older ghosts, written for future selves. Boys that tried silence and boys that didn’t, boys that time-travel emotionally through one another. Maybe they’ll never meet. Maybe they already have.

Sometimes a puddle holds more memory than the sky.

Misty Bridge Apple Loaf

Ingredients:

2 tart apples, grated

1/2 cup brown sugar

1/3 cup softened butter

1 tsp cinnamon

2 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

1 1/2 cups flour

1 tsp baking soda

Pinch of salt

Optional: walnuts or drizzle of honey

Instructions:

Preheat oven to 175°C (350°F). Grease a loaf pan.

Cream butter and sugar. Add eggs, vanilla, then stir in grated apple.

Mix dry ingredients separately, then combine.

Pour into pan, bake for 40–50 mins.

Let cool in the fog of your kitchen window. Eat quietly.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

Every puddle is a portal if you hit it mid-leap.

This boy isn’t just jumping. He’s bargaining with gravity and memory in the amber fog of a morning that feels like it got caught between sleep and waking. His sneakers haven’t touched the water yet. His reflection already has.

The street is quiet in that post-rain, pre-commute way. No one else sees him do it. No one ever really sees these moments but us, later. Much later. When the shoes don’t fit anymore and we try to remember what made us so brave.

And look at that light. It’s not golden hour—it’s defiance hour. It’s “I’m still here and I still want” hour.

🍯 Gravity Jam Toast

Ingredients:

1 thick slice of brioche or milk bread

Salted butter

1 tbsp homemade plum & honey jam (or your favorite golden jam)

A pinch of edible glitter or crushed candied fennel seeds (for shimmer)

Method:

Toast the bread until golden, edges crisp and center still soft.

While hot, generously butter—let it melt and pool slightly.

Spoon the jam over the toast like morning sunlight. Don’t spread too neatly.

Sprinkle shimmer or crushed candy lightly over the top.

Serve warm, ideally while standing in a sunbeam or near a puddle.

🌀 Best enjoyed mid-leap.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

There are people missing in this city and they are still walking it.

She’s not gone, not entirely—just a few pixels short of yesterday. Her hand is warm in his, but it flickers. He doesn’t cry. They keep walking down the empty road where balconies look like bleachers waiting for an audience that forgot the performance. She might be a memory. Or a future still buffering. Or maybe he drew her with too much hope.

Some say it’s a glitch. Others say it’s how grief edits the world.

Either way: he won’t let go.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

The boy told her that clouds were just secrets that hadn’t settled yet.

She didn’t laugh—just looked out toward the mist curling in the valley like it was listening.

They didn’t talk much after that, but something in the air had changed. Not between them—around them. As if the hills had heard too.

They had no map. Just the slow weight of summer ending and the feeling that this might be the last day things stayed exactly as they were.

Not a farewell. Not yet. But the kind of pause that makes everything after feel a little more like an echo.

You never really know when a memory starts forming. Sometimes it’s a sentence.

Sometimes it’s silence.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

We drove until the road dissolved into grass, and the grass into mist.

He got out first, didn’t say anything—just stood there, as if listening for an echo too soft for grown-ups.

There’s something about how he fits into the silence of these places. Like he remembers them from a time before he was born.

I watched him breathe in the cold green, the valley curling around him like a held note.

No signal out here, just sheep and sky and something unspeakable underneath it all.

Maybe he’s not lost. Maybe we are.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

Through the Glass, and a Little to the Left

We were walking down a rain-polished street when he stopped—just stopped—mid-step, mid-story, mid-sentence. His hand hovered by the strap of his backpack, knuckles white where he’d been fidgeting, and he tilted toward the window like something inside had whispered his name.

He didn’t touch the glass. Just leaned close enough that his breath left a soft patch of mist, like a secret handshake between inside and out.

And then, reflexively, I raised the camera. Because that’s what I do, I guess—try to catch the seconds that feel like they might dissolve if you look at them too directly. The back of his coat was damp from drizzle, and there was a reflection of him in the glass, softer than the real version, layered with warm shoplight and the silhouette of a potted plant.

I didn’t ask what he saw in the window. I still haven’t. Maybe it was just a lamp and a leafy stem. Or maybe he saw something else entirely—something that didn’t exist until the moment he looked at it.

When I look at this photo, I mostly notice the things that aren’t quite perfect. The slight fog. My own reflection breaking the edge. The way the focus tugged more toward him than I’d planned. But maybe that’s alright. Maybe that’s exactly what it needed.

Maybe this one wasn’t about sharpness.

Maybe it was about quiet.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

There’s a strange kind of clarity

There’s a strange kind of clarity that happens just before the city fully wakes up. The boy in the photo feels it—standing where the air is thinnest and the sky forgets its color.

He’s twelve, maybe. Just old enough to feel the edge of something shifting in him, but too young to name it. He doesn’t own the rooftop. He doesn’t even know how he got up here, not exactly. It’s one of those places kids find when they’re not looking—half-secret, half-accident, entirely real.

Down below: buses sigh, pigeons argue, someone’s opening a bakery. But up here, he’s still. Not performing. Not lost. Just existing in that in-between light, hands buried in his hoodie pockets like he’s holding onto some invisible truth.

You can almost hear it if you look long enough—the silence that isn’t silent, the breath between questions, the skyline swallowing the past tense.

Some mornings you don’t need answers. Just the wind and your own name, not spoken aloud but understood.

Just this moment, and maybe the next.

Nothing more, nothing less.

[mythoughtsintextsandimages]

Paper Planes Don’t Cry, But I Do

There’s something about a paper plane stuck on a storm drain that hits harder than it should.

Maybe it’s the angle of the streetlamp — soft and too golden for a place this damp.

Maybe it’s the way the puddle doesn’t just reflect light — it reflects effort.

A folded dream, crumpled mid-flight.

Some kid threw this. That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.

Maybe they aimed for the stars. Maybe just across the street.

Maybe it flew beautifully for half a second — enough to earn a grin —

and then, fate plus physics, it nosedived into this wet little grave.

It’s sitting there like a ghost of intention. Not tragic, just… paused.

Like it could still take off if the wind said sorry.

Tonight I walked past it three times.

I don’t know why I kept circling. Maybe I was waiting for it to move.

Or maybe part of me felt like that little plane —

mostly fine, just a bit soggy, unsure if I’m grounded or just on hold.

I didn’t touch it.

But I hope it dries.

I hope someone picks it up and tries again.