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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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  • Remember, I Am Kind by Choice

    Remember, I Am Kind by Choice

    Kindness waits unseen,
    a seed planted in the gaps—
    soft rebellion grows.

    Ethereal

    Kindness is a choice. Not a reflex, not an inheritance, but a deliberate act of defiance. I remind myself of this often, especially on days when the world feels jagged and raw, like a half-shattered window that refuses to break or mend.

    Buy my print on red bubble

    There are moments—sharp, vivid moments—when I could so easily let anger, irritation, or indifference take the reins. The barista forgets my order; the driver cuts me off on the motorway; the email arrives, dripping with condescension. But somewhere in the labyrinth of my chest, a voice stirs, calm yet firm. “Choose,” it says. “Remember.” 

    It is not an instinct. Instinct is survival, and survival is often cruel. But kindness is the quiet art of holding a mirror to the world and refusing to reflect its harshness. It’s not about sainthood or martyrdom—I don’t believe in halos. It’s about balance. About knowing that, even in chaos, you can plant something tender. 

    There’s a man who sits by the park near my flat, always in the same frayed jacket, his hands like dry riverbeds. Once, I walked past him without a second glance. Another day, I handed him an orange, its skin bright as a distant star. We didn’t speak. He didn’t need to thank me. What mattered was the act itself—the quiet offering to the unseen universe. 

    Kindness, I think, is a language best spoken without words. It’s in the unspoken patience as a stranger fumbles for coins at the till, or the way you pause to let someone else’s story unfold without rushing to add your own. It’s in forgiving yourself, too, for the days when kindness feels like an impossible weight. 

    There’s a certain magic in the spaces between things—the gaps in reality where something inexplicable hums. Kindness lives there, too. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t ask for applause. It exists in the quiet, persistent decision to hold the world gently, even when it feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. 

    Remember, I am kind by choice. Not because the world deserves it, but because I do. Because the act of choosing shapes me. Because I’ve seen what grows in the absence of kindness, and it’s a garden I refuse to tend. 

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  • Arty Rome

    Arty Rome

    Less writing more pictures this time.

    Colosseum
    Metro
    Statua di San Francesco d’Assisi
    Julius Caesar
    Airport
    Basilica Papale di Santa Maria Maggiore
    Villa Torlonia
    Shiba inu
    From inside the Colosseum
    Coliseum
    High fashion
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  • The UK miners’ strike of 1984–85

    The UK miners’ strike of 1984–85

    Statue at Cardiff Bay

    The Miners’ Strike: Thatcher’s War on Britain’s Backbone

    The miners’ strike of 1984–85 was more than a labour dispute—it was a defining battle in Britain’s socio-political history, pitting the working class against the iron will of Margaret Thatcher. What started as a fight to save coal jobs turned into a bruising war of attrition that reshaped the nation. 

    Strong Worker

    Thatcher’s government framed the strike as a necessary showdown against union power. Her target was the National Union of Mineworkers (NUM) and its leader, Arthur Scargill. For her, defeating the miners was about cementing a free-market economy unshackled from militant unionism. But for the miners, the strike was about survival—defending communities built on coal and livelihoods handed down for generations. 

    The strike was brutal. Police clashed with picketers in scenes reminiscent of civil war. Families faced hunger, hardship, and the fracturing of entire towns. The government stockpiled coal and deployed police forces as though miners were an internal enemy. Meanwhile, the NUM leadership failed to call a national ballot, fracturing the movement and alienating public support. 

    When the strike collapsed after a year, Thatcher had won—but at what cost? The coal industry was gutted, and with it, the social fabric of mining towns. Entire communities were abandoned to unemployment and decay. Once-thriving villages became ghost towns as young people fled in search of work, leaving behind fractured families and a profound sense of betrayal. 

    Today, many former mining areas are still grappling with the fallout. Decades later, unemployment, poverty, and poor health are entrenched in places where coal once fueled the economy. Drug abuse, mental health struggles, and a lingering sense of hopelessness plague some of these communities. People who lived through the strike recall it as a time of deep division—not just between miners and the government, but within their own families, as desperation forced people to make impossible choices. 

    For some, the scars remain visible: empty streets, derelict buildings, and the absence of the industry that once united and sustained entire towns. Thatcher’s victory symbolised the triumph of neoliberalism, but it also left a generation of workers and their families to shoulder the burden of its consequences. 

    The miners’ strike wasn’t just a defeat for labour; it was a death knell for solidarity in the face of growing economic inequality. The echoes of that struggle still resonate, a stark reminder of the cost of ideological warfare against the working class—and the communities it continues to hollow out.

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  • Crocodiles?

    Crocodiles?

    My journey into the world of crocodilians began with a seemingly ordinary visit to Chester Zoo. A brief encounter with the Sunda gharial, a long-snouted crocodilian native to Southeast Asia, ignited my curiosity. How many different types of crocodiles existed, and what were their unique features?

    Sunda Gharial
    Sunda Gharial
    I took this photo at Chester zoo – amazing.

    Large family.
    A deeper dive into the world of crocodilians revealed a surprising diversity. The order Crocodilia encompasses 24 species across three distinct families:
    * Crocodylidae – True Crocodiles (15 species)
    * Alligatoridae – Alligators and Caimans (8 species)
    * Gavialidae – Gharials (2 species)

    I know I’ve missed some – finding them can be your homework

    Each family possesses unique adaptations, appearances, and habitats, showcasing the incredible ecological diversity of these reptiles.

    * Crocodylidae: True crocodiles are widely distributed across Africa, Asia, the Americas, and Australia, varying in size from the massive saltwater crocodile to the smaller Philippine crocodile.

    * Alligatoridae: This family includes both alligators and caimans. Alligators, typically found in freshwater habitats in the southeastern United States and China, are distinguished by their broad snouts. Caimans, inhabiting rivers and wetlands in Central and South America, exhibit a wider range of body sizes and habitats.

    * Gavialidae: This family consists of two species: the well-known gharial, with its iconic thin, elongated snout, and the lesser-known Sunda gharial.


    The Enigmatic Sunda Gharial.
    The Sunda gharial (Tomistoma schlegelii) is a particularly fascinating species. With its long, narrow snout and distinct dark patterns, it bears a resemblance to the gharial but possesses a stockier body.

    Native to the freshwater ecosystems of Southeast Asia, Sunda gharials are shy creatures, making them difficult to study. Their slender snouts are perfectly adapted for catching fish, their primary diet, but they are capable of consuming a wider range of prey, including birds and small mammals.


    Unfortunately, Sunda gharials are classified as vulnerable due to habitat loss and human pressures. Conservation efforts are crucial to protect these enigmatic creatures and the unique ecosystems they inhabit.

    My journey into the world of crocodilians has deepened my appreciation for these ancient creatures. Each species, with its unique characteristics and ecological significance, is a testament to the incredible diversity and adaptability of life on Earth.

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  • Searching for Truth – The Construct

    Searching for Truth – The Construct

    Lost in streams of thought,
    truth becomes our shared compass,
    guiding through the noise.

    Getting to the reality

    I’ve been turning this idea over in my head for a while, mostly as an idle musing, and it just seemed too interesting not to share. There’s something about the way people are so deeply committed to finding out “what’s really true” these days, that it got me wondering if truth itself might be taking on a kind of… spiritual role for us. Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not out to replace religion or compare it too literally! I’m just fascinated by the way people dive so passionately into fact-checking, debating, and uncovering hidden realities. It feels like we’ve collectively found this new energy for seeking meaning and understanding in our world, especially with the internet at our fingertips. So, this is just me thinking out loud about where that passion might be leading us.

    In a time when information is everywhere, “truth-seeking” feels like the new way people come together over something meaningful. With the internet’s vast collection of perspectives, history, and data, it’s like we have a massive, digital library where everyone can pull their favorite books off the shelf, compare notes, and debate the facts. Social media has turned us all into researchers of sorts, each person piecing together their idea of truth from this endless stream of info.

    Back when knowledge was controlled by a few authorities, people had to take a lot of what they were told on faith. But today, the internet has shifted things. There’s no central voice anymore; instead, we all have the power to question, verify, and share our findings with anyone who’ll listen. It’s almost like we’re all members of a giant, curious community, connected by our shared drive to understand what’s real.

    Of course, with everyone on the hunt for truth, it’s easy to see how things can get tangled. Misinformation spreads, echo chambers grow, and people can land in very different realities. Still, the drive to explore, to dig deeper, and to get as close to the truth as we can brings us together in a unique way. It’s not about arriving at one ultimate truth; it’s about this shared, ongoing quest that gives us purpose. Maybe it’s not a religion in the usual sense, but there’s a sense of unity and purpose in it—and that feels like something worth musing over.

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  • Stag in Sunlight

    Stag in Sunlight

    Sunlight spills like breath,
    ancient trees hold quiet watch,
    stag stands, still as stone.

    A stag in sunlight standing in the woods

    In the quiet hush of morning, a single stag stands alone in a secluded forest clearing, his figure outlined in gentle streams of light that filter down from the canopy above. Each ray seeps through the branches and leaves, softening as it falls, wrapping him in a halo that seems both eternal and fleeting. His antlers, branches of bone and time, reach into the air with a majestic calmness, each point a marker of seasons come and gone, each curve a silent record of survival and adaptation. His coat is rich, a mix of earth-browns and shadows, blending into the woods yet catching the light just enough to stand apart, to be noticed.

    This moment—the stag, the sunlight, the stillness—is a scene millions of years in the making, a perfect portrait painted by evolution’s quiet hand. From the simplest of life forms, driven by the need to survive, to the elegance of this creature, whose every feature has been shaped by time itself, life has woven something wondrous. The stag’s heightened senses, his graceful frame, even the natural lines of his form, all serve a purpose, yet they come together to create something beyond mere function. They become beauty. And beauty, too, has its place in evolution, for it draws us near, inspires us to protect, to connect, to pause and simply be present.

    We, too, are shaped by evolution’s design, moulded not only to see but to feel, to wonder, and to appreciate. Perhaps, in a way, our perception of beauty is a survival instinct itself—a way to recognize harmony, to find peace in nature’s rhythms, to feel at home in the world that bore us. Standing in the clearing, we understand our role in this continuum. This moment of quiet awe is a part of something larger—a shared heritage with this stag, this forest, this light. In that silent connection, beauty becomes a bridge across time, binding us to all that has come before and all that will follow.

    And so we stand, quietly watching, breathing, and being, as the stag lifts his head, his gaze piercing yet soft, both knowing and unknowing. In this clearing, we glimpse the rare gift that evolution has left us: the capacity to see beauty not only in what we need but in all that simply is.

    What scene takes your breath away?

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  • Capturing The Contrast

    Capturing The Contrast

    Black and white horse
    Who me?

    You know, sometimes a photo just grabs you and won’t let go. That’s what happened with this shot of my white horse against the dark background. I’ve taken thousands of horse photos – trust me, my phone’s storage is crying about it – but there’s something about this one that feels different. It’s like catching magic in a moment, if magic wore a mane and had a tendency to sneeze on your camera lens.

    I decided to go with black and white for this one, and I’ll tell you why. There’s this gorgeous tension between light and shadow that color sometimes masks – like when you’re wearing a really great outfit but your statement necklace is stealing all the attention. In black and white, you can really see how my horse’s coat practically glows against that velvet-dark background. It’s not just white; it’s this luminous, ethereal kind of white that makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, unicorns aren’t such a far-fetched idea after all.

    And can we talk about that little bit of foliage peeking in? It’s doing the heavy lifting of keeping this photo grounded in reality, like that one sensible friend who reminds you that no, you probably shouldn’t get bangs at 2 AM. Without it, the horse might look like it’s floating in space – which, cool concept, but not what I was going for here.

    The contrast between black and white creates this almost theatrical backdrop, like nature decided to set up its own spotlight. My horse didn’t get the memo about being dramatic though – they’re just standing there, being their authentic self, probably thinking about their next snack. But that’s what makes it work, right? That completely unposed, natural moment caught in this stark, artistic frame.

    I’ve noticed that some of my favorite photos are the ones that make you lean in a little closer, the ones that play with the line between simplicity and drama. This shot does that for me. It’s like the photographic equivalent of a really good whisper – quiet but impossible to ignore. And while I’d love to say I planned every element of this composition, sometimes the best photos are the ones where you’re just lucky enough to be there with your camera when the light, the moment, and yes, even the cooperative positioning of a horse, all decide to play nice together.

    And yes, before you ask, I absolutely have this printed and hanging on my wall. Because some photos just deserve to graduate from the endless scroll of our camera rolls, don’t you think?

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