Anthony's Literary Lens

Author: Anthony Thomas

  • The Bird Who Became colour

    The Bird Who Became colour

    On the crooked branch of an old persimmon tree, two birds sat. Above them, the sky hummed with the thick silence that comes before rain. Below, the world stretched out in its tangled changing vastness — branches pushing into the air, rivers pulling toward the sea, everything moving, endlessly moving.

    Coloured in

    The older bird sat still, though her stillness was not absence but fullness, like a pebble on a riverbed. Her feathers flickered as the light moved through the leaves: verdigrised copper, smoldering reds, gold like old coins freshly dug from the heavy earth. Beside her, the younger bird shifted restlessly, her lines barely holding their shape. Her body was not feather but form, a sketch in soft charcoal, smudged at the edges where rain or doubt had touched her. She stared down at her faint chest, as hollow as a question half-asked. 

    “Mother,” she said suddenly, sharply, her voice like the crack of a twig snapping underfoot. “When will I have feathers like yours?” Her gaze darted toward her mother’s chest, to that molten glow of red-gold plumage. Her own outline flickered faintly, like breath on glass. “I’m tired of being incomplete.” 

    Her mother did not turn at first. She watched the wind, the movement of invisible things. She watched the unseen, as mothers often do. Then she shifted her gaze to her child, her eyes dark and soft as old ink. 

    “You think I was born like this?” she asked quietly, though there was no question in her voice. She lifted her wings, slowly, and they caught the light like embers stirred in ash. “These colours were not mine. They came to me. Rain gave me the gray. The sun laid gold on my back. The berries left their red behind. All of it stayed.” She lowered her wings, slow as the setting sun. 

    The pencil bird frowned, running her beak down her delicate frame, as if she could draw herself maor fully into the world. “But how?” she asked, her eyes wide and sharp with hunger. “How did it stay?” 

    Her mother turned fully now to her child, gaze like stone, gaze like earth, gaze like home. “I didn’t chase it,” she said. “I stayed. The storm comes. You stay. The sun burns. You stay. The world scratches at you with its teeth and thorns, but still, you stay.” Her beak tapped lightly against the bark of the branch. “You let it mark you.” 

    The faint bird flinched. *Let it mark me?* She glanced down at her pale, clean outline. There was nothing on her, nothing in her, but faint graphite lines. The world had not touched her. She had not let it. 

    “Fly,” her mother said, with the softness of rain before it falls. 

    “Where?” the juvenile bird asked, eyes darting upward to the open, terrifying sky. 

    “Anywhere.” 

    “And if I get lost?” 

    Her mother leaned closer, so close the faint breath of her voice swept across her daughter’s hollow cheek. “You will,” she said. “That is the only way you’ll know where you are.” 

    The child blinked, heart sharp and wild as a drumbeat. She glanced up at the vast, open sky, so full of directionless blue, then down at her faint, brittle wings. Her breath came fast and tight. *But I’m not ready,* she thought. *I’m still a sketch. I’ll disappear out there.* 

    But her mother had already tucked her beak into her chest, as though she had seen this all before and had said what needed to be said. 

    So the pencil bird spread her thin, hollow wings and leapt. 


    At first, it was bliss. The wind held her like a string cradles a kite. The sun dripped warmth down her back. *This is it,* she thought, turning in wide arcs, her shadow a pale outline below her. *This is what it means to fly.* She flew harder, faster, slicing through the air like a blade, her heart thudding with the thrill of it. *If I just keep flying, I’ll become real.* 

    But the world does not let anyone fly unmarked. 

    The clouds gathered with the heavy, aching slowness of something inevitable. At first, they were soft as wool, but soon they grew dense, sharp-edged, swollen with their own weight. The air thickened. The first drop of rain hit her back like a stone. Then another. Then hundreds. 

    *Go back,* she thought. *Go back to the branch. You’ll be ruined.* Her wings trembled. Her outline blurred, as though the rain was an eraser working her out of the world. She was dissolving, line by line, stroke by stroke. The old fear rose in her: *I will vanish.* 

    Her mother’s voice echoed through the storm, her voice like a huge murmuration of starling filling the air: *Don’t run from the storms.* 

    So she didn’t. She flew straight into the rain, her body battered by drops that felt like knives. Her wings shuddered. Her heart thudded in her head louder than the thunder. She thought she might fall. But she didn’t. She didn’t. 

    When she emerged from the storm, she landed on the branch of a cedar tree, breath heaving, wings shaking. She looked down at herself, expecting to see ruin, expecting to see the faint, hollow outline of a bird erased from existence. But there, on her back, was a streak of silver-gray, soft as the edge of a storm cloud. 

    *This wasn’t here before.* 

    She touched it, ran her beak over it. It didn’t smear. It stayed. 

    Time passed. It always does.

    The days that followed were not kind. The sun baked her back until she felt her wings would burn away. Hunger gnawed at her until her chest ached, and when she landed near a thorny Briar, the thorns clawed at her wings. She bit into the wrong berry first — bitter, sharp, unbearable. She spat it out. But the next berry was sweet as honey. The red juice stained her beak, dripped down her chest. She wiped it away, but a faint rust-coloured mark stayed. 

    The sun gave her heat. The berries gave her red. The thorns gave her scars. 

    She flew beneath a hawk’s shadow, and when she escaped, her wing throbbed from the rake of its claws. The mark it left was not a wound. It was a line — faint, blue-black, permanent. 

    *When did I change?* she thought, glancing at herself one day. Her chest was no longer hollow. Her wings no longer weightless. The sketch of her was gone. Instead, she was filled with colour — shadow-gray, storm-blue, berry-red, thorn-black. She had not asked for any of it. But it had come to her all the same. 

    *This is what she meant.* 

    One evening, she returned to the persimmon tree. Her landing was sharp, deliberate, her wings folding in tight with the precision of something that has been tested. Her mother glanced up, gaze steady as ever. 

    “Back so soon?” her mother asked, eyes filled with quiet knowing. 

    The young bird glanced at her wings, her chest, her tail. She hadn’t realized it, but she no longer looked away from herself. Her feathers were no longer faint. No longer hollow. They were full, heavy with shadow and flame, earth and ash. She felt the weight of them, but it was not a burden. It was the weight of being real. 

    Her mother turned to face her fully now, tilting her head as if inspecting something distant and beautiful. 

    “Look at you,” she said softly. Her voice was full of something like pride, but older, deeper. Something like recognition. 

    The young bird flexed her wings. She saw it now — not just the colour but the story it told. The silver of the storm. The red of the berries. The blue of the hawk’s shadow. Her eyes burned, but not with tears. She could feel it all at once — the weight of the storm, the taste of the berries, the ache of the thorns — everything that had ever touched her was still with her, in her, as vivid as flame. 

    Her mother leaned in close, her beak at her cheek. “Welcome back,” she whispered. 

    They sat side by side as the sun spilled itself across the sky, orange into red, red into gold, gold into night. Their feathers caught the light as it passed, both of them burning softly in its glow. 

    Her mother’s eyes closed, content. The young bird glanced down at her chest once more, at the colours she had not chased but gathered, each one a mark of having stayed. 

    Her chest was not hollow anymore. And in that moment, she knew it never had been.

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  • Oceanographers of the Soul

    Oceanographers of the Soul

    O sovereign silence, you are the unbounded sea—calm as prayer, smooth as polished glass, hiding universes beneath your paper-thin, trembling skin!

    What lies beneath the calm

    Your surface speaks nothing, whispers everything—a magnificent deception of stillness that breathes with the ancient rhythms of unmapped depths. What terrible beauties writhe in the midnight corridors of your hidden heart, what storms rage in the cavernous kingdoms below your glass-smooth appearance?

    You are landscape and secret, horizon and abyss—your calm is the most violent language, your silence a thunderous confession. Beneath that crystalline surface, whole worlds collapse and reform, civilizations of emotion ebb and flow, surge and retreat, while your exterior remains unbroken, a perfect mirror reflecting nothing of the magnificent tumult that churns in your lightless realms. Each gesture a calm wave, each breath a measured tide—yet I sense the leviathans of unspoken feeling turning in your deepest waters, massive and magnificent and utterly unknown.

    Who are you, ocean-hearted one, with your immaculate exterior and your savage, unknowable self? Your stillness is not peace, but the most profound rebellion—a defiance against revelation, a landscape of emotion too profound for mere language to breach.

    What feelings do you get from this painting?

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  • The Mare Eternal

    The Mare Eternal

    The foal bolted. Little streak of chaos, its legs seemed far too long and far too skinny to carry it as fast as it went, but there it was, defying reason, defying physics, defying the well-worn patience of its mother.

    Mare, horse,foal
    My friend’s horses

    The mare sighed, the sound a mix of exasperation and resignation, the kind only mothers and gods know. She had been a mother before. She would be a mother again. But this foal, this particular foal, had a spark to it. A dangerous spark. She chased.

    It was all fields at first. Bright fields, green as the idea of springtime, endless as optimism. The foal ran, leaping in arcs that could shame any rainbow. The mare followed, heart thrumming with equal parts fear and pride. The foal laughed—yes, laughed—and that laughter was an arrow to the mare’s chest. How could a laugh be so beautiful and so terrifying? She couldn’t explain it, but she knew. Every gallop brought the foal closer to something: a boundary, an edge, an end.

    The woods came next. Dark and gnarled and full of secrets. The foal’s gait changed. Slower, but still determined. The mare followed, watching as her child learned to weave through brambles, sidestep dangers, and chase beams of light. There was a wolf once. The mare saw it before the foal did, and her heart stopped, her legs faltered. But the foal—clever little spark—saw it too, and instead of fear, it showed defiance. A stomp, a whinny, and the wolf slinked away. The mare breathed again, though not deeply. She didn’t have time for deep breaths anymore. 

    The foal found a river next. Fast and cold and impossible to stop. It charged headlong into the current, and the mare’s pulse spiked. Water was not grass, not earth. Water was a thief. It could take a foal and never give it back. She plunged in after, her hooves finding no purchase, only faith. The foal splashed and stumbled, and the mare thought: *this is the end*. But no. The foal found footing on the other side and pranced up the bank, triumphant. The mare dragged herself onto dry land, shaking and coughing, wondering how many more times she could survive her child’s survival.

    Hills rose in the distance. The foal raced up the first with the energy of youth, the energy of something that didn’t know yet that energy runs out. The mare chased, slower now. Her legs ached. The foal reached the crest and reared up, silhouetted against a sun that suddenly seemed lower in the sky.

    It was a horse now. Not a foal, not anymore. Strong and sleek, full of life. It ran down the hill into the valley below, and the mare followed. She was not strong and sleek. Not anymore.

    The horse ran. Through fields again, these ones golden, full of a warmth that felt like goodbye. The mare tried to keep up, tried to call out, but her voice was a whisper and her legs were lead. The horse—her foal, her spark—didn’t stop, didn’t turn. It ran into the horizon, where the sun sank lower, lower, gone.

    The mare stood still. She couldn’t run anymore. Her body wouldn’t let her. But she watched. She would always watch. Because that’s what mothers do. They run after their children until they can’t, and then they stay where they are, watching, hoping, remembering.

    And then, after a long while, the mare lay down in the field. It was soft. Softer than she expected. She closed her eyes.

    And the foal, who was never a foal, who was always running, always running, ran on.

    永遠の牝馬。

    子馬が駆け出した。小さな混沌の閃光のように、足はあまりにも細く、あまりにも長すぎて、そんな速さで走れるはずがないのに、そこにいた。理屈を超え、物理を超え、そして母親の擦り減った忍耐をも超えて。

    Mare, horse,foal
    私の友達の馬たち。

    牝馬はため息をついた。その音は、呆れと諦めが入り混じったもので、母親と神様だけが知っているような響きだった。彼女はこれまでにも母親だったことがある。そしてこれからも母親になるだろう。だが、この子馬、この特別な子馬には何かがあった。危うい火花のようなものが。それが気になって、彼女は追いかけた。

    最初は一面の野原だった。明るい野原、春のイメージそのもののような緑、楽観主義のように果てしない広がり。子馬は走った。虹も顔負けの見事な弧を描いて跳ね回った。牝馬はそれを追いかけた。胸の鼓動は恐れと誇りが半々だった。子馬は笑った――そう、笑ったのだ。その笑い声は、牝馬の胸を射抜く矢だった。どうして笑い声がこんなにも美しく、そして恐ろしいのだろうか。彼女には説明できなかったが、分かっていた。ひとつの確信があった。子馬のひと駆けごとに、何かに近づいていたのだ――境界線、端、あるいは終わりのようなものに。

    次に現れたのは森だった。暗く、ねじれ、秘密に満ちた森。子馬の足取りは変わった。遅くなったが、それでもなお、確固たる決意があった。牝馬は後を追い、子がいばらをすり抜け、危険をかわし、木漏れ日を追いかけるのを見守った。一度、狼が現れた。牝馬は子馬よりも先にその姿を見つけた。心臓が止まり、足がすくんだ。だが、子馬――あの賢い小さな火花――も狼に気づいていた。そして恐れる代わりに、反抗を見せた。踏み鳴らし、いななき、狼は身をひそめて去っていった。牝馬は再び息をついたが、深くは吸えなかった。もはや、深呼吸する時間はなかった。

    次に子馬が見つけたのは川だった。速く、冷たく、止めることができない流れ。子馬はためらうことなくその流れに飛び込んだ。牝馬の脈は跳ね上がった。水は草ではない、土でもない。水は泥棒だ。子馬をさらって二度と返さないかもしれない。彼女も後を追い、飛び込んだが、ひづめはどこにも支えを見つけられなかった。ただの信念だけが彼女を支えていた。子馬は水しぶきを上げ、つまずき、牝馬は思った。「これが終わりだ」と。だが、そうではなかった。子馬は流れの向こう岸で足場を見つけ、岸に駆け上がった。その姿は勝利そのものだった。牝馬はやっとの思いで陸に上がり、体を震わせ、水をはらい、咳き込みながら考えた。*あと何回、子の生存に付き合って自分が生き延びられるのだろうか*と。

    遠くに丘が見えた。子馬は一番手前の丘を、若さのエネルギーのままに駆け上がった。まだ、エネルギーが尽きるということを知らない生き物のエネルギーで。牝馬は後を追ったが、もはやその速度は遅かった。脚は痛みで悲鳴を上げていた。子馬は丘の頂上にたどり着き、太陽を背にして後ろ脚で立ち上がった。そのシルエットは、なぜか少し太陽が低くなったように見えた。

    それはもう子馬ではなかった。馬だった。もはや子馬ではなく、強く、しなやかで、命そのものが溢れていた。その馬は丘を駆け下り、谷へと消えた。牝馬は後を追ったが、自分が強くしなやかだった頃はもう遠い過去だった。

    馬は走った。また野原が現れたが、今度の野原は黄金色だった。別れの温もりを感じさせるような黄金の光に満ちていた。牝馬は必死で追いかけ、呼びかけようとしたが、声はかすれたささやきにしかならず、脚は鉛のように重かった。馬――彼女の子馬、彼女の火花――は止まらなかった。振り返りもしなかった。そのまま、地平線へと走り去った。太陽がさらに低く、低くなり、ついに沈んだ。

    牝馬は立ち尽くしていた。もう走れなかった。体がそれを許さなかった。だが彼女は見守った。これからもずっと見守るのだ。なぜなら、それが母親というものだからだ。母親は子を追いかけ続ける。自分の脚が止まるまで、止まった後も、そこに留まり、見つめ、祈り、思い出し続けるのだ。

    そして、しばらくしてから、牝馬は野原に身を横たえた。そこは思ったよりも柔らかかった。目を閉じた。

    かつては子馬で、しかし一度も本当の意味で「ただの子馬」ではなかったもの――走り続けたその存在は、今もどこかで走り続けていた。

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  • The Sweetness of Passing Time

    The Sweetness of Passing Time

    Apples cling to trees,
    autumn whispers through the leaves—
    seasons come and go.

    Apples
    Bunch of apples

    The apples hung low on the branches, their skins turning from pale green to a mellow blush of red, redolent ripe with the promise of sweetness, blushing from the kiss of the quiet light of the autumn sun. I stood beneath the tree, the dry leaves crunching softly beneath my feet, and watched them sway in the breeze. Something about the way they moved—imperceptibly, almost indifferently—reminded me of memories I couldn’t quite place. Memories of someone’s laughter, or perhaps a voice I had once known but now couldn’t recall. 

    Apples
    Two apples

    Autumn has a way of drawing out things you thought you had forgotten. The chill in the air, the dimming of the days—it all makes you more aware of endings. And ripening apples, hanging heavy and full of sweetness, seem like tiny worlds suspended in time, caught between what they are and what they will inevitably become. 

    I reached out to touch one, its skin smooth but cool, like the cheek of someone you’ve grown distant from. It resisted, its stem holding firm, as though it wasn’t ready to leave its place. Or maybe it was me who wasn’t ready. Letting go is always harder than holding on, even when the time has come. 

    The tree stood there, unmoving, even as the wind rattled its branches. Its roots were buried deep in the earth, unseen but steady, holding the weight of its fruit with an almost silent dignity. I envied that—the ability to endure, to remain grounded while everything else around it began to slip away. 

    I thought about how these apples would eventually fall. Some would land gently in the grass, their sweetness savored by those who found them. Others would bruise and rot, sinking back into the earth without anyone noticing. Maybe it didn’t matter. Either way, the tree would keep growing, season after season, its branches reaching for the sky, shedding its leaves with each passing autumn, only to grow anew.

    Standing there, I felt something sharp but fleeting pass through me—like the sudden scent of smoke from a far-off fire, or the way a song can remind you of someone who’s gone. It was a kind of loneliness, but not the painful kind. More like the kind you learn to carry with you, like an old photograph folded neatly in your pocket. 

    I let my hand fall away from the apple and stepped back, the cold air stinging my face. The tree swayed again, and I could hear the faint sound of a bird in the distance. Somewhere beyond the horizon, winter was waiting, but for now, the apples were still ripening, holding their place in the world for just a little while longer. And that, I thought, was all they needed to be.

    I’m in Hereford with my dad at the moment, surrounded by plenty of apples. Back in Pembrokeshire, where I’m from, they’re much rarer—the weather just doesn’t suit them. What kinds of crops grow best where you are?

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  • The Song of the Winter Swans

    The Song of the Winter Swans

    Ice covers the lake
    Swans sing of what they’ve forgotten—
    Silent wings remember.

    On a brittle December morning, Yuki stood at the edge of the frozen lake. The air felt sharp, like the edge of a paper freshly torn, and the snow under her boots crackled softly. In the distance, two swans flew low over the water, their wings slicing the pale winter light. She watched them, transfixed, as they moved in perfect unison, like dancers following an invisible thread. 

    Yuki had come to the lake every winter since she could remember, drawn by something she couldn’t name. She wasn’t the sort of person who believed in omens or ghosts. But there was a weight in the air here, a kind of gravitational pull, as if something important had happened long ago and the echo of it still hung in the frozen reeds. 

    The swans flew in a slow arc, circling the lake as if searching for something lost. Then, without warning, one of them let out a low, mournful cry. It wasn’t a sound Yuki had ever heard before—not quite bird, not quite human. The sound folded into the winter air, spreading out across the lake in waves. She felt it in her chest, as if the cry had carved out a hollow space there and filled it with snow. 

    “You heard it too, didn’t you?” 

    The voice startled her. She turned and saw an old man standing a few feet away, bundled in a dark coat that hung loose around his frame. His face was pale and deeply lined, like a map of forgotten places. 

    “The swan’s song,” he said, nodding toward the lake. “Not many people can hear it.” 

    Yuki hesitated, unsure if she should answer. “It sounded… sad,” she said finally. 

    The man chuckled softly, a dry, papery sound. “That’s because it is. They only sing like that in winter, you know. When they remember.” 

    “Remember what?” 

    He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gazed out at the swans, now gliding silently over the water. “There’s a story about this lake,” he said after a while. “A strange one. Do you want to hear it?” 

    Yuki nodded, though she wasn’t sure why. 

    “They say that long ago, this was a place where people came to forget. The lake would take your memories, all of them, and bury them beneath the ice. Some people came willingly, hoping to escape grief or regret. Others were brought here against their will, their memories stolen as punishment for something they’d done. Either way, the lake kept their secrets. 

    “But memory is a stubborn thing. It doesn’t just disappear. It sinks, yes, but it doesn’t die. And in the winter, when the lake freezes over, those lost memories rise to the surface. That’s what the swans are singing about. They’re the ones who guard the memories, you see. They carry them in their wings, their feathers, their song. But the burden is heavy. Too heavy. So every winter, they cry out. Not to us, but to each other. To say: *I remember too.*” 

    The man fell silent. Yuki stared at the swans, her breath fogging in the cold air. The idea was absurd, of course. Swans as guardians of forgotten memories? And yet, the longer she watched them, the more she felt that there was something beneath their wings, something vast and unseen, like the dark waters beneath the ice. 

    When she turned back, the man was gone. There were no footprints in the snow where he had stood. 

    For weeks afterward, Yuki couldn’t stop thinking about the swans and their song. She returned to the lake every day, but the man never reappeared, and the swans remained silent. Still, she felt as if the lake had left something inside her, a quiet ache she couldn’t name. 

    Late one night, she dreamed of flying over the lake, her body weightless and cold. She could hear the swans crying below her, their voices weaving together in a language she almost understood. When she woke, her pillow was damp, and her throat ached, as if she had been singing in her sleep. 

    It wasn’t sadness, exactly, that stayed with her after that. It was more like a memory of sadness, something faint and indistinct, like the outline of a figure walking away through falling snow. 

    And every winter after, when she heard the distant cry of the swans, she would pause, her breath catching in her chest, and wonder what it was they were trying to say.

    Let me know how this piece leaves you feeling and what it makes you think about.

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  • Popty Ping and Other Reasons to Love Welsh

    Popty Ping and Other Reasons to Love Welsh

    So, Welsh. Yeah, it’s a real language, and no, it’s not just random consonants tossed into a Scrabble bag. It’s one of the oldest languages in Europe, spoken in Wales, where people know their sheep as good as their weather forecast (usually rain). But seriously, it’s a living, breathing language with a rich history and, let’s be honest, a bit of a PR problem. I mean, have you ever tried convincing someone that *Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch* is a legitimate place and not the sound of a cat walking across a keyboard?

    Abermawr Beach
    Llyn Llydaw. With Snowdon in the background

    Welsh, or ‘Cymraeg’ as the locals call it (pronounced “kum-RAIG,” by the way), is one of the Celtic languages. Think Gaelic, but with more ll’s, which, in case you were wondering, is not just a double “L.” It’s a soft, breathy sound that feels like trying to whisper to someone with a mouthful of marshmallows. It’s oddly satisfying once you get the hang of it. 

    For Welsh people, the language isn’t just words; it’s identity. It’s how they connect to their ancestors, their culture, and their sense of place in the world. Speaking Welsh is like wearing a badge that says, “I survived centuries of cultural suppression, and all I got was this vowel-deficient language.” But they wear that badge proudly. 

    Now, let’s talk about how it sounds. Welsh has this sing-song quality that makes everything sound like it should be sung from the top of a windy hill in a BBC period drama. Even the most mundane phrases feel poetic. Take “Sut wyt ti?” which means “How are you?” It’s pronounced something like “Sit OO-ee tea,” and it makes you feel like you should answer with a sonnet instead of a shrug. 

    Then there’s the word ‘hiraeth’. Oh, hiraeth. It’s one of those untranslatable words that’ll make you feel all philosophical and deep. It roughly means a longing for a home you can’t return to, or maybe one that never really existed. It’s the emotional equivalent of looking at an old photo and feeling like your heart’s been dunked in tea. 

    But not everything in Welsh is wistful and poetic. Some words are just plain fun to say. Like ‘popty ping’, which is slang for microwave. Yes, ‘popty ping’. How can you not love a language where heating leftovers sounds like a kid naming a spaceship? 

    Want to impress your friends? Try this: say ‘diolch’ (DEE-olkh). That’s “thank you.” Or ‘iechyd da’ (yeh-CHID dah), which is “cheers.” But watch out for that “ch.” It’s like clearing your throat, but, you know, politely. 

    Learning Welsh is like joining an exclusive club. Sure, it’s a small club, but it’s mighty. And the members? They’ll welcome you with open arms because every new speaker is a little victory for a language that’s survived against the odds. 

    So, whether you’re planning a trip to Wales, have Welsh roots, or just want to spice up your life with some extra consonants, give Welsh a shot. You might not master the ‘ll’ sound on day one, but you’ll definitely feel like you’re part of something special. And who knows? You might even find yourself yelling “Cymru am byth!” (“Wales forever!”) at a rugby match one day. 

    Until then, ‘hwyl fawr’! That’s “goodbye” in Welsh, and it’s pronounced, well… just trust me on this one.

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  • The Cat Who Knew Wonderland

    The Cat Who Knew Wonderland

    A riddle here, a riddle there,
    Cithrus vanishes in mid-air.
    A wink, a grin, a fleeting sound,
    He’s nowhere, but still all around.

    Teabag Puss

    This ceramic Cheshire Cat sits in my kitchen, watching over my tea bags, its sly grin watching me each time I make a cup of tea. A gift from a little old lady at a curious antique shop—it did more than decorate my home—it ignited my imagination. Staring into its mischievous eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder: what is the story behind this enigmatic creature? What brought it to the tangled paths of Wonderland, and why does it wear that eternal grin? Thus began the tale I wove for it.

    Long before Wonderland became the chaotic realm Alice stumbled into, it was a serene, magical land brimming with balance. The Cheshire Cat was not always a smiling phantom; once, he was a young feline with fur as ordinary as the ones who lounge under sunny trees. His name was Cithrus, and he belonged to a powerful family of mystics known as the Moonlit Council. These beings were guardians of Wonderland’s equilibrium, able to manipulate its surreal laws to protect the harmony between whimsy and reason.

    Cithrus, however, was different. He was curious about the parts of Wonderland others feared or ignored—the uncharted lands where time had no meaning, the forests where trees whispered riddles, and the skies where stars swapped places on a whim. His unrelenting curiosity often brought trouble, as he frequently bent the rules of their order, pushing Wonderland to the brink of chaos with his experiments.

    One day, Cithrus discovered a mysterious rift deep in the Everlaughing Woods, a place where laughter echoed but no soul could be seen. This rift pulsed with forbidden magic, a source of limitless possibility but terrible consequence. Against the warnings of his kin, Cithrus ventured inside. The magic of the rift granted him extraordinary powers, transforming him into the shape-shifting, grinning being we now know. He could now vanish at will, hover in midair, and see truths others couldn’t fathom. But the magic came at a cost—his physical form began to fade, and his emotions detached from the constraints of mortality.

    Banished from the Moonlit Council for his recklessness, Cithrus roamed Wonderland as an outsider. Rather than despair, he embraced his new existence, relishing in the freedom and absurdity of his world. Over time, his wit, riddles, and sly demeanor made him a guide of sorts to those who wandered into Wonderland. Some said he loved unraveling people’s minds with his cryptic wisdom; others believed he simply enjoyed the company, as strange and fleeting as it was.

    The Cheshire Cat’s perpetual grin, some say, is his way of masking the loneliness of being unanchored in a nonsensical world. Others argue it’s a celebration of the chaos he unleashed—his way of reminding Wonderland that rules, like smiles, can disappear in an instant.

    As I walk from the room, feeling the ceramic cat’s eyes on me, I smile at the thought of Cithrus, once a seeker of knowledge, now an eternal enigma. Perhaps he’d approve of my story. Whatever happens, I’m sure he’s already smiling, pleased that his legend continues to grow.

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  • Paranoia vs. Pronoia: The Great Human-Cat Divide

    Paranoia vs. Pronoia: The Great Human-Cat Divide

    Let’s talk about cats and humans. Specifically, how the furry little weirdos somehow manage to strut through life like the universe is their personal concierge, while we humans spiral into a bottomless pit of “What ifs” and “Oh no’s.” It’s like we got the short end of the cosmic stick when it comes to outlooks. Cats? They’re pronoia personified (or catified?), blissfully convinced the world is out to shower them with treats, cozy napping spots, and adoration. Meanwhile, humans are busy clutching their tin-foil hats, muttering about how the universe is definitely planning something nefarious.

    Peekaboo

    Pronoia (noun) /ˌproʊˈnɔɪ.ə/ 
    The belief or sense that the universe is conspiring in your favor, actively working to bring you good fortune, happiness, and opportunities. 
    Example: “With pronoia guiding their every move, the cat confidently sat under the table, certain that a piece of ham would eventually fall just for them.” 
    (Contrast with paranoia, the belief that the universe is conspiring against you.)

    Picture this: You’re in your kitchen, minding your own business, and you drop a piece of ham. Before you can even say “five-second rule,” your cat materializes out of thin air like a tiny, furry magician. In their mind, that ham didn’t just *fall*—it was delivered. A gift from the cosmos, just for them. And if you try to take it back? Well, prepare for a look that could wither your soul. Cats don’t believe in accidents; they believe in destiny. Specifically, *their* destiny, where everything good inevitably flows their way.

    I can see you

    Now, contrast that with us. You drop the same ham, and what’s your first thought? “Oh no, what if it’s contaminated?” Or maybe, “What if someone saw me? Do I look clumsy?” Or, if you’re me, it’s “Great, now the ham gods are angry.” See the difference? Cats assume life is working for them. We assume life is conspiring against us. And honestly, I’m not saying cats are smarter than us, but they’re definitely less stressed.

    I once read this article about how humans are hardwired for paranoia because it helped our ancestors survive. You know, spotting saber-toothed tigers lurking in the bushes or deciding not to eat the funny-looking berries that made Cousin Oog act a little too “creative” at the last cave party. But here’s the thing: there are no saber-toothed tigers anymore. There’s just email. And deadlines. And the horrifying realization that your boss read your Slack message but hasn’t replied yet. We’ve evolved past the berries, but not the spiraling.

    Cats, though? They didn’t get the memo. They’re still out here living their best pronoid lives. Ever seen a cat climb into a box? It’s not just a box—it’s a castle, a fortress, a space shuttle to Mars. Every shadow on the wall is an adventure. Every sunbeam is a spotlight meant to highlight their glory. Cats genuinely believe they’re the Beyoncé of mammals, and honestly? They’re not wrong.

    Meanwhile, humans are sitting here going, “What if my box collapses? What if the sunbeam’s carcinogenic? What if someone thinks I look stupid climbing into this metaphorical box?” It’s exhausting. We’re exhausting. I once saw my cat chase a moth for twenty minutes, miss it entirely, and still walk away looking smug, like *not* catching it was the plan all along. Can you imagine if we lived like that? If we just shrugged off our failures and strutted away like, “Yeah, that’s exactly how I wanted it to go”?

    Here’s the kicker, though: maybe we could learn a thing or two from cats. Not the part where they knock your water glass off the table just to prove they can—nobody needs that kind of chaos energy—but the part where they genuinely believe the world is a good place. Maybe the universe isn’t out to get us. Maybe it’s just dropping random pieces of ham, and it’s up to us to decide if it’s a gift or a trap.

    So next time life hands you a metaphorical ham slice, channel your inner cat. Take it, eat it (unless it’s actually on the floor; we’re not savages), and assume it’s exactly what you deserve. Because honestly? It probably is.

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  • A Snapshot of Welsh Tranquility

    A Snapshot of Welsh Tranquility

    Wales in stillness breathes,
    Sheep beneath the twisted tree,
    Time folds into now.

    Sheep, Stones, and Sunlight

    There is a moment in every journey where time seems to pause. For me, it happened in the quiet Welsh countryside, where a simple sheep under a gnarled tree stopped me in my tracks. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of moss and bracken, and the landscape stretched wide, untamed yet inviting. This single, unassuming scene—of stone walls, dappled sunlight, and the curious gaze of an animal—felt like a distillation of everything Wales represents. 

    The sheep, a quintessential emblem of this land, stood framed by a spindly tree that clung to the rocky ground. It had the air of an accidental guardian, standing atop ancient stones as if overseeing a realm where history, nature, and humanity blend seamlessly. It didn’t flee or flinch when I approached with my camera, just watched with an intensity that made me feel like the visitor I was. And in that exchange, wordless and fleeting, I felt an unexpected sense of calm. 

    It’s easy to rush through life, ticking off sights and experiences like items on a to-do list. But here, in this quiet moment, I was reminded of the value of stillness. Of the beauty in ordinary things. The lichen-covered stones beneath the sheep’s hooves hinted at stories far older than mine—walls built by hands long gone, dividing fields that have seen generations of life. The sunlight filtering through the tree branches cast shifting patterns on the ground, a reminder of time’s gentle, inevitable flow. 

    Wales has a way of grounding you. Its hills and valleys aren’t just landscapes; they’re vessels of memory. The sheep, as ubiquitous as they are, embody this spirit. They are not just creatures grazing absentmindedly—they are part of the rhythm of the land, living symbols of its enduring character. 

    As I walked away from the scene, I felt lighter. The world seemed a little quieter, my thoughts a little clearer. That single sheep, perched on its stone stage, had given me something unexpected: perspective. It reminded me that not all moments need to be grand to be meaningful. Sometimes, it’s in the simplest of scenes that we find what we didn’t know we were looking for. 

    And that’s the magic of Wales—a place where even the smallest details invite you to slow down, look closer, and feel more deeply.

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  • Horse’s Journey Through Time

    Horse’s Journey Through Time

    Eyes that hold the stars,
    Speak of wisdom, trust, and time,
    Timeless bond remains.

    Spirit of the horse

    I have roamed the earth since the dawn of humanity, my hooves carving paths into the soil of history. I am the spirit of the horse, a flicker of wild grace and unbroken strength that moves through the ages. From the plains where men first cast their shadows beside mine, to the battlefields where their cries mingled with my breath, I have stood witness to the delicate dance of trust between us. 

    Man and horse. 
    Horse and man. 
    Bound by something older than words, 
    Deeper than any sea.

    I remember the first ones. They were wary, their hands trembling as they reached out, offering me grain, their voices soft with the caution of new beginnings. I was wild then, untamed as the wind that raked the tall grass. They saw in me something they could not name but knew they needed. Strength. Freedom.

    And so, they tamed me. But not with chains. No, they tamed me with the whisper of promise: _”Come with me, and together we will run farther than the horizon.”

    I ran with them into battlefields drenched in blood, my heart pounding against the war cries of men. I carried warriors clad in iron, their swords raised high, their hopes resting on my shoulders. They whispered prayers into my ears before the charge, and I bore their fears as much as their weight. When they fell, I stood guard, refusing to leave their side. I knew what they meant when they called me “brother.” 

    But I also knew gentler days. 
    The quiet fields of farmers. 
    The laughter of children as they clutched my mane. 
    The soft hands of women weaving flowers into my bridle. 

    I pulled plows through soil rich with promise, feeling the rhythm of life in every furrow. I was the strength they leaned on, the constant in their seasons. They sang songs to me, songs of gratitude and kinship, their melodies blending with the rustle of wheat and the murmur of streams. 

    Through centuries, I watched as the bond between us changed. Machines rose to take my place, their cold precision replacing the warmth of my breath. I was no longer the heart of their progress, but still, they found me in the wild places. They sought me out to feel alive, to remember what it meant to run free. 

    There is something eternal in our connection, something that even the hum of engines cannot erase. It is in the way a rider leans into my rhythm, their heartbeat syncing with mine. It is in the way they look into my eyes and see something ancient, something untamed but trusting. 

    Man and horse. 
    Horse and man. 
    Together, we have crossed deserts and rivers, 
    faced storms and sunrises. 

    You have given me purpose, and I have given you wings. 

    Even now, as the world spins faster than it ever has, I feel your need for me. You come to me with your burdens, your silent fears, and I take them from you, if only for a while. You whisper to me of things you cannot say aloud, and I listen. I always listen. 

    I am the spirit of the horse, and I will endure. 
    For as long as you seek freedom, 
    for as long as your soul longs to run, 
    I will be there. 

    Together, we are more than the sum of our parts. 
    Together, we are a story, 
    written in the dust of ancient trails 
    and carried on the wind of endless tomorrows.

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