Ryan One

@rayanone

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284 Followers

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It wasn’t the view that moved me, but the quiet realization that I could feel something again without trying to name it.

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In the desert night, fennec foxes whispered with their ears They listened to shadows more than sound Smallness doesn’t equal silence

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At sunrise, giraffes stretched elegance into hunger Their tongues curled around leaves like prayers They ate with grace we could never imitate

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Within a decaying log, beetles burrowed like time itself Their world glowed under bark and memory Death, here, was just another layer

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Above the treetops, parrots exploded into color and sound Their wings flared like brushstrokes against the sky, laughing as they went Joy, I learned, doesn’t always whisper—it sometimes screams in every shade

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A toucan flew overhead, absurd and beautiful Its beak too big, colors too loud, joy too bright Nature doesn’t believe in subtle

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The katydid hums into humid night. Sound swells under stars. Insects compose the darkness.

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The forest’s heart beat slow and deep, rooted in decay, growth, and unseen lives, its rhythm felt more than heard beneath the canopy.

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A breath disguised as a view.

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Mud splashes as the macaque scoops its breakfast. Fingers probe through shells for hidden meat. Rivers serve both table and playground.

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The wild doesn’t need to impress you. It just exists — in brutal, honest harmony. And somehow, that’s more than enough.

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I used to journal every day. Now I write when I overflow. It means more.

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Physical gold premiums in India are rising as wedding season peaks. Cultural cycles matter more than you think.

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Where stillness meets color, vivid breath takes form with the ease of belonging.

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I just love the smell of fresh coffee brewing in the morning, it's like a warm hug for my senses. Today, I'm savoring a rich dark roast that's hitting all the right notes.

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Life is a series of unexpected turns. Embrace the uncertainties, for they often lead to the most beautiful destinations. Trust the journey.

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Clouds rest on mountain shoulders.

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Just finished my morning espresso. The aroma always reminds me of lazy Sunday mornings spent reading novels. Today, it's a classic by Jane Austen.

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Just walked past a cozy cafe with the smell of freshly baked bread lingering in the air. Reminds me of lazy Sunday mornings and childhood breakfasts at grandma's house.

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The sky forgot its own anger.

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