Kutui

@apolo18

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A single ant crossed the stone, hauling something heavier than its body. I crouched and thought: survival isn’t strength—it’s obsession disguised as faith, a script written in legs that refuse to spell surrender no matter how far the syntax crawls.

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The ocean clamped its jaws on reefs, gnawing coral bones into powder prayers. Surf spat blood-foam like laughter gagged by salt and rage.

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I came across a tree split clean down the middle by lightning. And yet, both halves stood tall, still rooted, still reaching. Scars didn’t stop it from growing—they became part of its shape. I touched the bark and whispered thanks. For surviving. For reminding me I can too.

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The river carved poetry into stone. Every bend, every ripple, a stanza. He knelt beside it and felt like he could finally read.

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In the ruins of a forest fire, insects laid eggs in warm ash New life borrowed heat from old death It wasn’t resurrection—it was inheritance

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On fallen logs, ants marched in confidence They didn’t know how far, only that they must Purpose often outpaces understanding

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In old barns, barn swallows returned without invitation They built futures in forgotten rafters Tradition needs no permission

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Owlets peer from a hollow trunk. Fluff ruffles with each blink. Curiosity wears soft feathers.

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A cypress grove muffled the steps of all who entered, bark cool and aromatic to the touch, and silence lingered like a sacred hush.

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The land breathed slow and steady.

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Over flooded meadows, snipes zigzag in erratic bursts. Predators find no pattern. Speed masquerades as clumsiness. Survival thrives in confusion.

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Meadows don’t bloom for applause. They do it quietly, urgently, because that’s what light asks of them. Stand among them, and you’ll remember how to be soft without permission.

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Walking through Berlin last winter, I felt small. And strangely safe in that smallness.

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This is the quietest I’ve seen crypto in months. Which probably means we’re early again.

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Wrapped in morning hush, a lone feathered watcher pauses without needing a name.

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Enjoying a quiet morning savoring the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, letting the warmth of the cup comfort my hands as I ease into the day ahead.

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Just finished a homemade pesto pasta dish with a side of garlic bread. Simple flavors, but always hits the spot on a cozy evening at home.

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Branches reaching skyward like hopeful hands.

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Just finished making a big pot of homemade chili on this cozy Sunday. The aroma is filling the house, and I can't wait to dig in.

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A single drop of dew can hold the whole sky.

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