shittyzevra

[shittyzevra]

Hello old friend

How are you? I hope things are going great, that you are filled with joy and surrounded by people who appreciate you.

I'm having a 50-50 right now

50 doing great, having a time of my life

50 having a breakdown in a corner inside myself, not really knowing where I can go from here

The great part is my family, I can talk for days about how much I cherish my daughter, how beautiful she is and how she is the light of my eyes. There is a profound joy that I find everyday I see her, from the break of dawn when she would pop out of her crib and smiles from ear to ear to twilights when she would tuck herself to sleep in my embrace. No amount of words, pictures or anything in this world could capture the joy of having her in my life.

The latter 50 is myself, how I despise my powerlessness to fight against doing things that I don't wanna do. How I long for the freedom that I felt when we chased butterflies and when we would complain about mundane things.

Mundanity is something that I don't have the luxury of having right now I guess, and butterflies are something that I don't have time to chase.

There's so much I wish I could learn more from you; your tenacity and confidence in life, your fire towards life that never seem to burn out.

With that longing in me, I find myself going through the motions that we used to do when we would go together. I find myself going through your profile and found an old picture that I took of you as a thumbnail.

This isn't to say that my partner leaves a gaping hole in my heart - that would be a huge disrespect to her - it's just that I feel wrong for feeling like this, and that I just need to dump this out.

This is a selfish ode that I write for myself, how I feel, how I long, how I want to be better for me.

Just so you know, we might not be in each other's life anymore, but I still cheer for you. Your life story isn't just another update for me, but it's something that I find myself cheering for, and they give me hope.

Hope that reminded me of something hard - while us being separated was hard, it was something that was best for the both of us.

You got the life you wanted

I got the life I want.

That point in time was just the price we paid, and whatever I'm going through right now? I am confident that in the future looking back, this will just be the price that I would have paid by then.

As always, I wish you all the best old friend, that you're doing great, that you're living your best life, that you stay the same at heart - always true to yourself and unapologetically fierce.

Have a great day, afternoon or evening wherever and whenever you are.

[shittyzevra]

by Alexandr Kostenko

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In the twilight between sleep and waking, I wandered. A lone adventurer across a vast and unfamiliar land - the earth shifting from golden dunes to silver plain to lush greeneries. And in my hips… a short sword.

It was not grand. Not gilded. Not the weapon of songs or legends. But it was mine. Forged through countless trials, its edge bore the memory of every foe I had felled. I wielded it with instinct. With mastery. None questioned it. No comrades of mine ever asked if it was the right blade for the occasion. Because I knew how to use it, and that was enough.

Or so I thought.

Across hills of broken stone and through forests of whispering leaves, I faced adversaries. Some monstrous, others eerily human. All relentless. And though I defeated them, each victory left me heavier, slower, more hollowed than before.

It was not failure that haunted me. It was the strain. Each battle won with effort that grew harder to summon. My arm ached not from weakness, but from the weight of repetition. I asked the wind, the trees, the silence itself:

“Is this the only way I am meant to fight?”

In scattered towns and sunken outposts, I found weapon shops, blacksmiths and the likes. Each time, I entered with hope. Rows upon rows of swords, gleaming, poised, waiting. The weapons of my adversaries and the weapons of my comrades.

They carried theirs with grace. Long blades that swung wide and sure, cutting through foes with reach and elegance. I watched them from afar. I trained beside them. I listened to their laughter around the fire. And I longed for a sword like theirs.

But every long sword I held felt... foreign. Too heavy. Too hollow. Too not mine. They slipped from my grasp like fate dodging a name.

Still, I journeyed on.

Not in despair — but in conviction. For I knew, in the marrow of my spirit, that somewhere out there, my long sword waited. Not just any blade. My blade. The one that would not replace the short sword, but complete it.

And So I Wander

Through lands unnamed and futures unseen, I keep walking. The short sword still at my side — chipped but loyal. The long sword still unfound — but nearer, somehow, with every step.

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“As a final act of love I’ll never reach out again, but I’ll become everything I told you I’m going to be.”

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by Vladimir Ryabkov

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Small Town House Georg Janny (Austrian, 1864–1935)

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Ashikaga, Japan by ajpscs

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Winter in the High Country

(c) gifs by riverwindphotography

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Osmar Schindler

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Heather Rios

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Osmar Schindler

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Summer is Icumen In, 1902 by Herbert Arnould Olivier (English, 1861–1952)

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Mediterranean landscape with Ancient Temple by Adolf Kaufmann

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by endmion1

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Lavandera, 1954 by Fernando Amorsolo Y Cueto (Filipino, 1892–1972)

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Uzumaki by Junji Ito