๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’

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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’ banner
๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’

๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’

@WaniTutor

ๆ—…ไบบใงใ™ใ€‚ๆ€่€ƒใฎๆตใ‚Œใซ้‹ใฐใ‚Œใฆ็•ฐๅ›ฝใฎ็‰‡้š…ใซ็ซ‹ใคใจใ€ๅ†…ใชใ‚‹ไฝ•ใ‹ใŒ้™ใ‹ใซใ–ใ‚ใ‚ใๅง‹ใ‚ใพใ™ใ€‚็Ÿฅใฏ่ก็ชใง็›ฎใ‚’่ฆšใพใ—ใ€ไฝ“ใฎๅฅฅใ‚’ๆตใ‚Œใฆ่ผช้ƒญใ‚’ๅค‰ใˆใฆใ„ใใ€‚ใใ‚Œใฏๆปฒใฟๆปดใ‚Šใ€ใ„ใคใ‹ๆ—…ไบบ่‡ช่บซใ‚ˆใ‚Šใ‚‚ๅ…ˆใซ้ ใใธ่กŒใฃใฆใ—ใพใ†ใ‚‚ใฎใ€‚ใใฎๅฝผๆ–นใซ็ขบใ‹ใชๅๅ‰ใฏใชใใ€้€š้Žใ™ใ‚‹ใŸใณใ€ใพใ ่ฆ‹ใฌๅ ดๆ‰€ใธ้€ฃใ‚Œใฆใ„ใ‹ใ‚Œใ‚‹ใ ใ‘ใชใฎใงใ™ใ€‚

Trieste, a city between Katฤฑlฤฑm Mart 2020
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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
Mid-Journey โ€” Years ago, in graduate school, I studied travel and mobility. But the research was never only theoretical. I was also traveling โ€” watching how movement, borders, and small encounters shape ordinary lives. Those thoughts slowly became small fragments on Twitter. Each one began with the same words: ๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠ โ€” Mid-Journey. There were 365 of them. In 2023 they became a small book. Now I am walking that road again, turning those fragments into poems โ€” one each day until December 31. 365 fragments of a road. ๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠ โ€” ใšใ„ใถใ‚“ๅ‰ใ€ๅคงๅญฆ้™ขใงใƒœใ‚ฏใฏๆ—…ใจ็งปๅ‹•ใซใคใ„ใฆ็ ”็ฉถใ—ใฆใ„ใพใ—ใŸใ€‚ ใงใ‚‚ใใ‚Œใฏ็†่ซ–ใ ใ‘ใงใฏใ‚ใ‚Šใพใ›ใ‚“ใงใ—ใŸใ€‚ๅฎŸ้š›ใซๆ—…ใ‚’ใ—ใชใŒใ‚‰ใ€็งปๅ‹•ใ‚„ๅขƒ็•Œใ€ใใ—ใฆๅฐใ•ใชๅ‡บไผšใ„ใŒไบบใฎ็”Ÿๆดปใ‚’ใฉใ†ๅฝขใฅใใ‚‹ใฎใ‹ใ‚’่ฆ‹ใฆใ„ใพใ—ใŸใ€‚ ใใฎๆ€่€ƒใฏใ‚„ใŒใฆใ€Twitterใซๆ›ธใๅฐใ•ใชๆ–ญ็‰‡ใธใจๅค‰ใ‚ใฃใฆใ„ใใพใ—ใŸใ€‚ ใฉใฎๆ–ญ็‰‡ใ‚‚ๅŒใ˜่จ€่‘‰ใ‹ใ‚‰ๅง‹ใพใ‚Šใพใ™ใ€‚ ใ€Œๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠใ€ ๅ…จ้ƒจใง365ใ‚ใ‚Šใพใ—ใŸใ€‚ใใ‚Œใ‚‰ใฏ2023ๅนดใซไธ€ๅ†Šใฎๆœฌใซใชใ‚Šใพใ—ใŸใ€‚ ใใ—ใฆไปŠใ€ใƒœใ‚ฏใฏใใฎ้“ใ‚’ใ‚‚ใ†ไธ€ๅบฆๆญฉใใ€ใใ‚Œใ‚‰ใ‚’่ฉฉใธใจๆ›ธใ็›ดใ—ใฆใ„ใพใ™ใ€‚ 12ๆœˆ31ๆ—ฅใพใงใ€ๆฏŽๆ—ฅใฒใจใคใ€‚ 365ใฎ้“ใฎๆ–ญ็‰‡ใ€‚
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ใดใƒ
ใดใƒ@Pixi_chan0204ยท
ใƒ—ใƒใƒ—ใƒใ‚’ใฒใจใคใฒใจใคๆฝฐใ™ใ‚ˆใ†ใซใ—ใฆๅฏ่ƒฝๆ€งใ ใ‘ๆฎ‹ใ—ใฆใ‚‹ #็ŸญๆญŒ #tanka
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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
ๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠใฏไธ–็•Œใซ่ฟ‘ใฅใ„ใฆใ„ใ‚‹ใ‚ˆใ†ใซๆ€ใˆใพใ™ใ€‚ ใ‘ใ‚Œใฉใ€ใฉใ“ใ‹ใงไฝ•ใ‹ใŒใšใ‚Œใฆใ„ใใพใ™ใ€‚ ่ผช้ƒญใŒใ‚„ใ‚ใ‚‰ใŽใ€ใปใฉใ‘ใฆใ€ๅค–ใซใ‚ใฃใŸใฏใšใฎใ‚‚ใฎใŒใ€ใ„ใคใฎใพใซใ‹ๅ†…ๅดใซๅ…ฅใ‚Š่พผใ‚“ใงใใพใ™ใ€‚ ๅ—ใ‘ๅ…ฅใ‚Œใ‚‹ใ“ใจใฏใ€ใฒใ‚‰ใใ“ใจใงใ‚‚ใ‚ใ‚Šใพใ™ใ€‚ ใใ—ใฆใ€ใใฎใฒใ‚‰ใใฏใฉใ“ใ‹ใงๆญขใพใ‚‹ใ‚ใ‘ใงใฏใชใใ€ใ‚†ใ‚‹ใฟใ€่–„ใ‚Œใฆใ„ใใพใ™ใ€‚ ใ‚„ใŒใฆ่บซไฝ“ใŒใ€ๆ€่€ƒใ‚ˆใ‚Šใ‚‚ๅ…ˆใซๆฐ—ใฅใใฏใ˜ใ‚ใพใ™ใ€‚ ๆฏใ‚’ใฒใจใคๆญขใ‚ใ‚‹ใ“ใจใ€ไธ€ๆญฉใ‚’่ธใฟใจใฉใ‚ใ‚‹ใ“ใจใ€ไฝ•ใ‹ใŒๅ†…ๅดใธๅผ•ใ่ฟ”ใ—ใฆใ„ใๆฐ—้…ใ€‚ ้ ใ–ใ‹ใ‚‹ใฎใงใฏใชใใ€ใ‚€ใ—ใ‚ๅ†…ใธใจใ€็šฎ่†šใฎไธ‹ใซใ€้™ใ‹ใช็ทšใŒๅฝขใ‚’ๅ–ใ‚Šใฏใ˜ใ‚ใพใ™ใ€‚ ใใ“ใซๆฎ‹ใ‚‹ใ‚‚ใฎใŒใ€ใพใ ่‡ชๅˆ†ใฎใ‚‚ใฎใงใ‚ใ‚Šใ†ใ‚‹ใ‚ˆใ†ใซใ€‚
๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’@WaniTutor

Mid-Journeyโ€” you move closer to the world, or so it seems. then something shiftsโ€” your edges soften, give way, and what was out there is suddenly inside. to receive is to open, and opening keeps goingโ€” loosening, thinning, until the body knows before you doโ€” a breath held, a step refused, something in you turning back. not toward distance, but inwardโ€” a quieter line forming beneath the skin, where what remains might still be kept.

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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
Mid-Journeyโ€” you move closer to the world, or so it seems. then something shiftsโ€” your edges soften, give way, and what was out there is suddenly inside. to receive is to open, and opening keeps goingโ€” loosening, thinning, until the body knows before you doโ€” a breath held, a step refused, something in you turning back. not toward distance, but inwardโ€” a quieter line forming beneath the skin, where what remains might still be kept.
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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
#ๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠ365 ๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠใฎใ•ใ•ใ‚„ใ‹ใช่กŒ็‚บใŒใ‚ใ‚Šใพใ™ใ€‚ ้€šใ‚Š้ŽใŽใ‚‹ใ“ใจใฏ่จฑใ•ใ‚Œใฆใ‚‚ใ€ใจใฉใพใ‚‹ใ“ใจใพใงใฏ่จฑใ•ใ‚Œใชใ„่จ€่‘‰ใงใ€ใƒ‘ใƒณใ‚’ๆณจๆ–‡ใ™ใ‚‹ใ“ใจใ€‚ ใพใ ไธ€ๅบฆใ‚‚ๅๅ‰ใ‚’ๅ‘ผใฐใ‚ŒใŸใ“ใจใฎใชใ„่ก—ใงใ€้€šใ‚Šใ‚’ๆธกใ‚‹ใ“ใจใ€‚ ใใ†ใ—ใŸใ“ใจใฏใ€ๆœใซใชใ‚Œใฐ่ทกๅฝขใ‚‚ใชใๆถˆใˆใฆใ—ใพใ†ใ€ใ•ใ•ใ‚„ใ‹ใช่‹ฑ้›„็š„่กŒ็‚บใงใ™ใ€‚ ๅคœใฎใƒ™ใƒƒใƒ‰ใฏๅบƒใ™ใŽใฆใ€ใฉใ“ใ‹่‡ชๅˆ†ใฎใ‚‚ใฎใงใฏใชใ„้™ใ‘ใ•ใ‚’ใŸใŸใˆใชใŒใ‚‰ใ€ใ„ใคใ‹ๆˆปใ‚Œใ‚‹ใจๆ€ใฃใฆใ„ใŸ่‡ชๅˆ†ใฎ่ผช้ƒญใ‚’ใ€ใ‚†ใฃใใ‚Šใจใปใฉใ„ใฆใ„ใใพใ™ใ€‚ ใ‚„ใŒใฆใ€ๆ—…ไบบใฏๆผ‚ใ„ใฏใ˜ใ‚ใพใ™ใ€‚ ่‡ช็”ฑใธๅ‘ใ‹ใ†ใฎใงใฏใชใใ€ใใ‚‚ใใ‚‚่‡ชๅˆ†ใฏใฒใจใคใฎใ‹ใŸใกใซใจใฉใพใ‚‹ใ‚ˆใ†ใซใฏใงใใฆใ„ใชใ‹ใฃใŸใฎใ ใจใ€ๆฐ—ใฅใ„ใฆใ„ใใปใ†ใธๅ‘ใ‹ใ†ใฎใงใ™ใ€‚ ้“ใฏใพใšใ€ๅฃใ‚’้€šใ—ใฆๆ•™ใˆใ€ใ‚„ใŒใฆๆ‰‹ใธใจไผใ‚ใฃใฆใ„ใใพใ™ใ€‚ ใใ—ใฆใ„ใคใ—ใ‹ใ€่ƒŒ้ชจใพใงใ‚‚ใŒๅˆฅใฎใ€Œๅพ…ใกๆ–นใ€ใ‚’่ฆšใˆใฆใ„ใใพใ™ใ€‚ ๆ—…ไบบใฏใŸใ ่จชใ‚Œใฆใ„ใ‚‹ใฎใงใฏใ‚ใ‚Šใพใ›ใ‚“ใ€‚ ่‡ชๅˆ†ใฎๅ†…ใชใ‚‹ไฝ•ใ‹ใŒใ€ใใฎๅœŸๅœฐใฎๆฐ—้…ใฎไธญใง็”Ÿใใฏใ˜ใ‚ใ‚‹ใพใงใ€ๅฐ‘ใ—ใšใค่บซใ‚’้ ใ‘ใ€่€ณใ‚’ๆพ„ใพใ›ใพใ™ใ€‚ ๅ€Ÿใ‚ŠใฆใใŸใ‚ˆใ†ใชใƒชใ‚บใƒ ใ€ใ‚‚ใ†ใฒใจใคใฎๅ‘ผๅธใ€‚ ่ฆ‹ๆ…ฃใ‚Œใชใ„ๅ…‰ใซ่‡ช็„ถใจๅฟœใˆใฆใ—ใพใ†ใ€ใ‚‚ใ†ใฒใจใ‚Šใฎ่‡ชๅˆ†ใ€‚ ใใ—ใฆๆ•…้ƒทใ€‚ ๆ•…้ƒทใฏใŸใ—ใ‹ใซ็พŽใ—ใ„ๅ ดๆ‰€ใงใ™ใ€‚ ใงใ‚‚ใใ‚Œใฏใ€ๆฝฎใฎๅ‹•ใ‹ใชใ„ๆธฏใฎใ‚ˆใ†ใงใ€ใใ“ใ‹ใ‚‰ใฏใ‚‚ใ†ใ€ไฝ•ใ‚‚ๆตใ‚Œๅ‡บใฆใฏใ„ใใพใ›ใ‚“ใ€‚ ใ‹ใคใฆใใ“ใ‚’้›ขใ‚Œใฆใ„ใฃใŸใ€ใ‚ใฎ้ ƒใฎๆ—…ไบบใงใ•ใˆใ‚‚ใงใ™ใ€‚
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#MidJourney365 Mid-Journeyโ€” a small actโ€” ordering bread in a language that lets you pass, but never keeps you, crossing a street where no one has ever called your name, these are the heroics that vanish by morning. the bed at nightโ€” too wide, carrying a silence that is not yoursโ€” loosens, slowly, the shape you thought you could return to. you begin to driftโ€” not toward freedom, but toward the sense that you were never meant to stay one thing. the road teaches first through the mouth, then the hands, until even your spine learns a different way to wait. you do not visitโ€” you lean, you listen, until something in you begins to live in their weather. a borrowed rhythm, a second breath, a self that answers to unfamiliar light. and thenโ€” home. beautiful, yes. but like a harbor where no tide moves. nothing leaves it anymoreโ€” not even the version of you that once did.
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ๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠใงๅ‡บใใ‚ใ—ใŸๆฉ‹ใŒใ€ๅœฐ้ขใจใ„ใ†ๅ‰ๆใใฎใ‚‚ใฎใ‚’ๆ‹’ใ‚“ใงใ„ใพใ™ใ€‚ ๆ—…ไบบใฎ้‡ใฟใซๅฏพใ—ใฆใ‚ใšใ‹ใซ้…ใ‚Œใฆๅฟœใ˜ใ€ไธ€ๆžšไธ€ๆžšใฎๆฟใฏใ€ใปใ‚“ใฎๅฐ‘ใ—ๅพŒใซใชใฃใฆๆ—…ไบบใฎ่ถณๅ–ใ‚Šใ‚’ใชใžใ‚Šใพใ™ใ€‚ ไธ‹ใงใฏๅทใŒใ€ใŸใ‚ใ‚‰ใ†ใ“ใจใชใใ€ใŸใ ๅ‰ใธๅ‰ใธใจๆตใ‚Œ็ถšใ‘ใฆใ„ใพใ™ใ€‚ ใใฎไธŠใงๆ—…ไบบใฏใ€ใฉใ“ใ‹ใกใใฏใใชใ“ใฎๆง‹้€ ใฎไธญใง่ถณใ‚’ๆญขใ‚ใ‹ใ‘ใพใ™ใ€‚ ๅ‡่กกใฏ่‡ชๅˆ†ใฎใ‚‚ใฎใงใฏใชใใ€ๅผตใ‚Š่ฉฐใ‚ใŸใƒญใƒผใƒ—ใจใฎใ‹ใ™ใ‹ใชๆŠ˜ใ‚Šๅˆใ„ใฎไธŠใซๆˆใ‚Š็ซ‹ใฃใฆใ„ใพใ™ใ€‚ ็ซ‹ใกๆญขใพใ‚‹ใปใฉใซใ€ใ‹ใˆใฃใฆๆบใ‚Œใฏ้š›็ซ‹ใฃใฆใใพใ™ใ€‚ ใ ใ‹ใ‚‰ๆ—…ไบบใฏๆญฉใใพใ™ใ€‚ ็ขบใ‹ใ•ใซๅ‘ใ‹ใ†ใŸใ‚ใงใฏใชใใ€็ต‚ใ‚ใ‚‹ใ“ใจใฎใชใ„ใŸใ‚ใ‚‰ใ„ใฎ็ธใ‚’ใชใžใ‚‹ใ‚ˆใ†ใซๆญฉใใฎใงใ™ใ€‚ ใใ—ใฆใ€ๆบใ‚Œใจไธ€ๆญฉใฎใ‚ใ„ใ ใงใ€ใตใจๆฐ—ใฅใๅง‹ใ‚ใพใ™ใ€‚ ๆบใ‚Œใฆใ„ใ‚‹ใฎใฏๆฉ‹ใงใฏใชใใ€ไฝ•ใ‹ใŒ็ขบใ‹ใซ่‡ชๅˆ†ใ‚’ๆ”ฏใˆใฆใ„ใ‚‹ใฏใšใ ใจใ„ใ†ใ€ใใฎ่€ƒใˆๆ–นใงใ‚ใฃใŸใ“ใจใ‚’ใ€‚
๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’@WaniTutor

#vss365 #waver Mid-Journeyโ€” the bridge refuses the idea of ground. it answers your weight with a delayed reply, each plank remembering your step a moment too late. below, the river does not waverโ€” it commits to falling forward. above it, you hesitate in a structure that cannot agree with itself. your balance is borrowed, negotiated with ropes that sing under strain. to stand still is to feel more of the movement, so you walkโ€” not toward certainty, but toward the end of hesitation that never fully ends. and somewhere between sway and step, you begin to understand: it is not the bridge that wavers, but the idea that anything ever held.

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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
#vss365 #waver Mid-Journeyโ€” the bridge refuses the idea of ground. it answers your weight with a delayed reply, each plank remembering your step a moment too late. below, the river does not waverโ€” it commits to falling forward. above it, you hesitate in a structure that cannot agree with itself. your balance is borrowed, negotiated with ropes that sing under strain. to stand still is to feel more of the movement, so you walkโ€” not toward certainty, but toward the end of hesitation that never fully ends. and somewhere between sway and step, you begin to understand: it is not the bridge that wavers, but the idea that anything ever held.
Prof Fox ๐ŸฆŠโœจ๐Ÿ–ค - #vss365 Host March 16 - 31@darkxfer

#vss365 #prompt for March 22, 2026 is #waver You can shiver and shake, but never waver in your commitment to your craft. Put on your armor and leave the antagonists in your wake! Letโ€™s rise to the challenge like the word warriors we areโ€ฆ

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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
ๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠใงใฏใ€่ชฐใซใ‚‚่ฆ‹ใ‚‰ใ‚Œใฆใ„ใชใ„ใจๆ€ใฃใฆๆฎ‹ใ—ใŸ็—•่ทกใŒใ€ใ‚ใจใ‹ใ‚‰่‡ชๅˆ†ใฎ็พๅœจๅœฐใ‚’ๆ•™ใˆใฆใใ‚Œใ‚‹ใ“ใจใŒใ‚ใ‚Šใพใ™ใ€‚
ใ—ใ‚ใฟ.ใ•ใ•ใพ@a8hppddOGx21786

#ๆฏŽๆ—ฅๆ–‡ๅญฆ ใ€€ใƒ‹ใ‚น่‡ญใ„ ใ€€ๅฃŠใ‚ŒใŸใƒขใƒ‡ใƒซใฏ ใ€€ใฒใจใคใšใคๅ››่‚ขใ‚’ ใ€€ใพใŸใŒใ‚Œ ใ€€็™ฝใ็ด™ ใ€€ใ“ใ‚Œใฉใ†๏ผŸ ใ€€็ตตใชใ‚“ใฆๆ‰่ƒฝใชใ„ใ— ใ€€็ช“ใฏไธŠๆ‰‹ใ็งใ‚’ๆ˜ ใ•ใš ใ€€ๆ กๅบญใ‚’ๆตฎใไธŠใŒใ‚‰ใ› ใ€€ๅ‚พใๆฏใ‚’ ใ€€ใ‚ใŠใ‚Š ใ€€ ใ€€่ชฐใ‚‚ๅฑ…ใชใ„ใ‚ˆ ใ€€ๆ‰่ƒฝใฏใชใ„ใ‚ˆ ใ€€ไธ‹ๆ กๆ™‚ใฎใƒใƒฃใ‚คใƒ  ใ€€็ช“ๆž ใซๅŽใพใ‚‹็ง้” ใ€€่ฆ‹ใ‚‰ใ‚Œใชใ„่ฝๆ›ธใ

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#ๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠ365 ๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠใฎๅทก็คผ่€…ใŒใ€ๆƒณๅƒใ‚„ๅ‰ต้€ ใฎ่–ๅŸŸใ‚’็›ฎๆŒ‡ใ—ใฆๆญฉใ„ใฆใ„ใ‚‹ใคใ‚‚ใ‚Šใงใ„ใพใ™ใ€‚ ใ‘ใ‚Œใฉใใฎ้€”ไธญใงใ€็•ฐๅ›ฝไบบใงใ‚ใ‚‹ใ“ใจใฎๅฑ…ๅฟƒๅœฐใฎใ‚ˆใ•ใซใ€ใฉใ“ใ‹ๅฎ‰ใ‚‰ใŽใ‚’่ฆ‹ใคใ‘ใฆใ—ใพใ„ใพใ™ใ€‚ ่‡ชๅˆ†ใ‹ใ‚‰ๅฐ‘ใ—้›ขใ‚Œใฆใ„ใ‚‰ใ‚Œใ‚‹ใ“ใจใŒใ€็†่งฃใ—ใŸใ“ใจใฎใ‚ˆใ†ใซๆ„Ÿใ˜ใ‚‰ใ‚Œใ‚‹ใ‹ใ‚‰ใงใ™ใ€‚ ใ€Œๅคšๆง˜ๆ€งใ€ใจใ„ใ†่จ€่‘‰ใ‚‚ใ€ใ„ใคใฎใพใซใ‹็–‘ใ†ใ“ใจใชใๅ—ใ‘ๅ…ฅใ‚Œใฆใ„ใฆใ€ใใ‚Œใ‚’ๅฃใซใ™ใ‚‹ใŸใณใซใ€ไฝ•ใ‹ใ‚’ๅˆ†ใ‹ใฃใŸๆฐ—ใซใชใฃใฆใ—ใพใ„ใพใ™ใ€‚ ๅค‰ใ‚ใฃใฆใ„ใ่‡ชๅˆ†ใฎใ“ใจใ‚‚ใ€ๆทฑใ็ขบใ‹ใ‚ใ‚‹ๅ‰ใซใ€่‰ฏใ„ใ‚‚ใฎใจใ—ใฆๅ—ใ‘ๅ…ฅใ‚Œใฆใ—ใพใ„ใพใ™ใ€‚ ใใ—ใฆๆฐ—ใฅใ‘ใฐใ€ใฏใฃใใ‚ŠใจใฏๆŽดใ‚ใฆใ„ใชใ„ใ‚‚ใฎใพใงใ€็†่งฃใ—ใŸใ‚ˆใ†ใซ่ชžใฃใฆใ„ใ‚‹่‡ชๅˆ†ใŒใ„ใพใ™ใ€‚ ๆ—…ใ‚’็ถšใ‘ใชใŒใ‚‰ใ€Œ่ฆ–้‡ŽใŒๅบƒใŒใฃใŸใ€ใจๆ€ใฃใฆใ„ใ‚‹ใ‘ใ‚Œใฉใ€ใใ‚Œใฏๆœฌๅฝ“ใซไฝ•ใ‹ใŒ่ฆ‹ใˆใ‚‹ใ‚ˆใ†ใซใชใฃใŸใฎใงใฏใชใใ€ใŸใ ใ€ใใ†ๆ€ใ„ใŸใ„ใ ใ‘ใชใฎใ‹ใ‚‚ใ—ใ‚Œใพใ›ใ‚“ใ€‚ ใใ—ใฆใใฎๅทก็คผ่€…ใฏใ€ใฉใ“ใ‹ใง่ฆ‹ใŸ่ชฐใ‹ใงใฏใชใใ€ไปŠใ“ใ“ใงๆญฉใ„ใฆใ„ใ‚‹่‡ชๅˆ†ใชใฎใ‹ใ‚‚ใ—ใ‚Œใพใ›ใ‚“ใ€‚
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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
#MidJourney365 Mid-Journeyโ€” the pilgrim walks toward a sanctuary of imagined and made things, or at least, that is what he tells himself. along the way, he finds a quiet ease in being a stranger, a small distance from who he was, and mistakes that distance for understanding. โ€œdiversityโ€ becomes a word he trusts a little too easily, something he carries and repeats, until it begins to feel like knowing. as he changes, he accepts itโ€” not because he sees clearly, but because it feels right to say that he has grown. and somewhere along the road, he notices he is speaking of things he cannot quite hold, as if repeating them might make them true. still, he walks on, wrapped in the sense that his vision has widenedโ€” though he cannot say what, exactly, has come into view. and slowly, it occurs to him: the pilgrim he has been watching may not be someone else, but the one taking these steps.
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ใ„ใก
ใ„ใก@ichimennoichimeยท
@WaniTutor ใใ†ใชใฎใงใ™๏ผ็ฌ‘ ๏ผˆใŠๅ‡บใ‹ใ‘ใจๅ’ๆฅญๅผใจๆ—…่กŒโœŒ๏ธ๏ผ‰
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ใ„ใก
ใ„ใก@ichimennoichimeยท
ใ‚ใกใ‚ƒใใกใ‚ƒๅ‹ๆ‰‹ใชใŠ้ก˜ใ„ใงๆ็ธฎใงใ™ใŒใ€3้€ฃไผ‘ใ—ใฃใ‹ใ‚Šไป•ไบ‹ใ—ใพใ™ใฎใงใ€ๆฅ้€ฑใฎๆœˆๆ›œๆ—ฅใƒปๆฐดๆ›œๆ—ฅใƒป้‡‘ๆ›œๆ—ฅใƒปๅœŸๆ›œๆ—ฅใฎๅคฉๆฐ—ใ‚’ใ€ๆ™ดใ‚Œใซใ—ใฆใใ ใ•ใ„๏ผใ‚ˆใ‚ใ—ใใŠ้ก˜ใ„ใ„ใŸใ—ใพใ™๏ผ๏ผ
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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
ๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠใงๅœฐๅ›ณใŒใ€้™ใ‹ใช่จ˜ๆ†ถใฎใ‚ˆใ†ใซ้–‹ใใพใ™ใ€‚ใใฎ็ทšใฏใ€ๆ—…ไบบใฎๆŒ‡ใŒ่งฆใ‚Œใ‚‹ๅ‰ใ‹ใ‚‰ๆฏใฅใ„ใฆใ„ใพใ™ใ€‚ ๅˆ‡็ฌฆใฏใƒใ‚ฑใƒƒใƒˆใฎไธญใงใ€ใ™ใงใซ่กŒใๅ…ˆใ‚’็Ÿฅใฃใฆใ„ใ‚‹ใ‹ใฎใ‚ˆใ†ใซใ‚ใŸใŸใ‹ใ„ใงใ™ใ€‚ ๆ—…ไบบใฏใ€ใใ‚Œใ‚’้ธใ‚“ใ ็žฌ้–“ใ‚’ๆ€ใ„ๅ‡บใ›ใพใ›ใ‚“ใ€‚ ้ขจใซๅ‚พใ„ใŸๆจ™่ญ˜ใฏใ€ๅ‰ใ‚’ๆŒ‡ใ™ใจใ„ใ†ใ‚ˆใ‚Šใ€ๆ—…ไบบใ‚’่ฆ‹ใคใ‘ใฆใ„ใ‚‹ใ‚ˆใ†ใงใ™ใ€‚ ่–„ๆš—ใ„ๅฎฟใงใฏใ€ๅฎฟๅธณใฎไธญใซใฒใจใคใฎๅๅ‰ใŒใ‚ใ‚Šใ€ใใฎใ‚คใƒณใ‚ฏใฏไนพใ„ใŸใพใพใ€ใพใ‚‹ใงๆ—…ไบบใฎๆ‰‹ใ‚’ๅพ…ใฃใฆใ„ใŸใ‹ใฎใ‚ˆใ†ใงใ™ใ€‚ ๆ—…ไบบใฏๆญฉใใพใ™ใ€‚้“ใ‚’ใคใใ‚‹ใฎใงใฏใชใใ€ใ™ใงใซใ‚„ใ‚ใ‚‰ใ‹ใ็”จๆ„ใ•ใ‚Œใฆใ„ใŸใ‚‚ใฎใธๅ…ฅใ‚Š่พผใ‚€ใ‚ˆใ†ใซใ€‚ไธ€ๆญฉใ”ใจใซใ€้“ใฎใปใ†ใŒๆ—…ไบบใ‚’่ฆšใˆใฆใ„ใ‚‹ใฎใงใ™ใ€‚ ใใ—ใฆใ‚„ใŒใฆใ€ใ€Œไฟกใ˜ใฆใ„ใ‚‹ใ€ใจใคใถใ‚„ใใจใใ€ใใฎ่จ€่‘‰ใฏใ€ๅฐ‘ใ—ใ ใ‘้…ใ‚ŒใฆๅฑŠใใพใ™ใ€‚่ตฐใฃใŸใ‚ใจใฎๆฏใฎใ‚ˆใ†ใซใ€‚ใšใฃใจๅ…ˆใซใ‚ใฃใŸใ‚‚ใฎใธใ€่ฟฝใ„ใคใ„ใŸใ‚ใจใซใ€‚ ใใ‚Œใฏๆ€ฅใŒใšใ€ใŸใ ้™ใ‹ใซใ€ๆ—…ไบบใŒใใ‚Œใซใตใ•ใ‚ใ—ใใชใ‚‹ใฎใ‚’ๅพ…ใฃใฆใ„ใŸใฎใงใ™ใ€‚
๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’@WaniTutor

Mid-Journeyโ€” the map opens like a quiet memory lines breathing before your fingers arrive a ticket rests in your pocketโ€” warm, already certain you do not recall the moment you chose it a sign, weathered, leans into the wind its arrow not pointing forward, but recognizing you in the innโ€™s dim light, a name waits in the guestbook ink dried as if it had been patient for your hand you walkโ€” not making the path, but entering what has been softly prepared step after step, the road remembers you and when at last you whisper, โ€œI believe,โ€ the word arrives a little late like breath after running for something that had always been ahead waiting without urgency for you to become true to it

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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
Mid-Journeyโ€” the map opens like a quiet memory lines breathing before your fingers arrive a ticket rests in your pocketโ€” warm, already certain you do not recall the moment you chose it a sign, weathered, leans into the wind its arrow not pointing forward, but recognizing you in the innโ€™s dim light, a name waits in the guestbook ink dried as if it had been patient for your hand you walkโ€” not making the path, but entering what has been softly prepared step after step, the road remembers you and when at last you whisper, โ€œI believe,โ€ the word arrives a little late like breath after running for something that had always been ahead waiting without urgency for you to become true to it
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Antonio Salsano
Antonio Salsano@salsanoยท
ELIDE Lโ€™attesa Non tutte le sere lโ€™uomo tornava. Elide restava comunque. Il mare conosce la pazienza dei porti. E lei capรฌ una cosa: certe presenze arrivano solo per insegnarti a guardare meglio lโ€™orizzonte. #inMargine
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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
Mid-Journeyโ€” in a town of narrow streets, where a market gathered each day around a single word, I saw a man climb the worn steps to a small overlook. from there, he spoke of the othersโ€” their rituals, their careful circling, and he stood apart, dust still on his boots, holding a map he did not unfold. he called it distance, this way of not quite entering, but the road bent, as roads tend to do, and the overlook was only another turn within the same path. I watched as he bowed, almost gently, to the quiet grace of standing asideโ€” and in that gesture, he was already among them.
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lifethreads
lifethreads@lifethreadsinยท
Why The Divide A brahmin called Brahma first had manas putras The Kumaras Unbound, free, blessed but outcasts Then Manu was born to Brahma & Saraswati Manu received divine instruction & transmitted dharma We all are but his children #vss365 #Brahma #SanatanDharma #Manusmriti
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ใ—ใ‚ใฟ.ใ•ใ•ใพ
@WaniTutor ใ‚ฆใƒฏใ‚กใ‚ก๏ฝž๏ผŸใ“ใกใ‚‰ใซใ‚‚ๅพกๆ„Ÿๆƒณใ‚’๏ผŸ๏ผๅคงๅค‰ๆ็ธฎใงใ™ใ€‚ใ‚ใ‚ŠใŒใจใ†ๅพกๅบงใ„ใพใ™ใ€ไฟกใ˜ใ‚‰ใ‚Œใชใ„ใใ‚‰ใ„ใ†ใ‚Œใ—ใ„ใงใ™๏ผใ“ใฎ่ฉฉใฏใ€่ชญใ‚“ใงไธ‹ใ•ใฃใŸๆ–นใŒๅฅฝใใซ่งฃ้‡ˆใ—ใฆใใ ใ•ใ‚Œใฐใ‚ใ‚ŠใŒใŸใ„ใงใ™ใ€‚ใŸใ ๆฎบไบบใฎ่ฉฉใงใฏใชใใฆโ€ฆ
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@WriteMap
@WriteMap@writemapยท
@WaniTutor Beautiful, thought-provoking poemโ€”the self as an ongoing interaction with the world โœ๏ธ Thank you for sharing, Tetsu ๐Ÿ™
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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
#WriteMap456 #body Mid-Journeyโ€” the body is not a place you arrive at, but a border that shifts with every step you take. the skin does not simply hold youโ€” it negotiates, deciding, quietly, what of the road may enter, and what must remain a passing wind. your hands remember not the things you carried from town to town, but the ones you had to leave behind. the world touches you in small, persistent ways, and the body answers before thoughtโ€” a pause at a crossing, a breath that shortens without reason. you think you are moving through landscapes, but it is the boundary within you that travelsโ€” redrawing itself with every mile, deciding again what it means to let something in.
@WriteMap@writemap

#WriteMap 456 Map a meaningful event or issue from your past, present or future. All writing forms are OK (fiction, nonfiction, poetry, prose, etc.). Prompt (optional): BODY

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๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’
ๆ—…ใฎ้€”ไธŠใงใ€ๅœฐๅ›ณใŒๅคงๅœฐใ‚’ๅˆ†ใ‘ใ‚‹ใจๆฑบใ‚ใŸๅ ดๆ‰€ใซ็ซ‹ใกใพใ—ใŸใ€‚ ็‰‡ๆ–นใฎ่ถณใฏใฒใจใคใฎ่จ€่‘‰ใ‚’่ฆšใˆใ€ใ‚‚ใ†็‰‡ๆ–นใฏใ€ใใ‚Œใ‚’ๅฟ˜ใ‚Œใพใ„ใจใ—ใฆใ„ใพใ—ใŸใ€‚ ๅขƒ็•Œ็ทšใฏ่ฆ‹ใˆใพใ›ใ‚“ใ€‚ใŸใ ใ€ไธกๆ–นใซๅฑžใ™ใ‚‹ใ“ใจใฏใงใใชใ„ใจใ„ใ†้™ใ‹ใชไบ†่งฃใ ใ‘ใŒใ‚ใ‚Šใพใ—ใŸใ€‚ ใ•ใ‚‰ใซ้€ฒใ‚€ใจใ€่ก—ใŒใใ‚Œใ„ใซไบŒใคใซๅˆ†ใ‹ใ‚Œใฆใ„ใพใ—ใŸใ€‚ ็‰‡ๅดใงใฏๅคœใŒๆฏใ‚’ๆฝœใ‚ใ€ใ‚‚ใ†็‰‡ๅดใงใฏๆ˜ผใŒ็›ฎใ‚’้–‰ใ˜ใ‚ˆใ†ใจใ—ใพใ›ใ‚“ใ€‚ ใใฎใ‚ใ„ใ ใซใฏๅฃใŒใ‚ใ‚Šใพใ™ใ€‚ใ‚‚ใจใ‚‚ใจๅˆ†ใ‹ใ‚Œใฆใ„ใŸใ‚‚ใฎใ‚’ๅˆ†ใ‘ใ‚‹ใŸใ‚ใงใฏใชใใ€ใใฎๅˆ†ๆ–ญใ‚’ใ€ๅ‹•ใ‹ใชใ„ใ‚‚ใฎใซใ™ใ‚‹ใŸใ‚ใงใ™ใ€‚ ใใ‚Œใงใ‚‚ใ€ใƒœใ‚ฏใฏๆญฉใ็ถšใ‘ใพใ™ใ€‚ ้“ใฏ้€”ๅˆ‡ใ‚Œใ‚‹ใฎใงใฏใชใใ€ใŸใ ็ถšใ„ใฆใ„ใใ€ๆฐ—ใฅใ‹ใชใ„ใ†ใกใซใ€ใƒœใ‚ฏ่‡ช่บซใ‚’ๅˆ†ใ‘ใฆใ„ใพใ—ใŸใ€‚ๆญฉใ็ถšใ‘ใ‚‹ใƒœใ‚ฏใจใ€ๆœ€ๅˆใซ้“ใŒๅˆ†ใ‹ใ‚ŒใŸๅ ดๆ‰€ใซใจใฉใพใ‚Š็ถšใ‘ใ‚‹ใƒœใ‚ฏใจใซใ€‚
๐•ฅ๐•–๐•ฅ๐•ค๐•ฆ ๐•Ÿ๐•’๐•œ๐•’๐•›๐•š๐•ž๐•’@WaniTutor

#vss365 #divide Mid-Journeyโ€” I stood where the map decided to divide the earth, one foot learning one language, the other refusing to forget. No line was visibleโ€” only the quiet agreement that I could not belong to both. Further on, a city split cleanly in two: on one side, night kept its breath, on the other, daylight would not close its eyes. Between them, a wallโ€” not to divide what was already separate, but to make the division stay. I walked on. The road did not break, it simply continued until it quietly divided meโ€” one self that kept going, another that remained where the path first chose to split.

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