Created by: anonymous in daily-page on Feb 19, 2026, 7:11 PM
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I took these photos on a short walk near my house in East Durham. Nothing heroic. No grand mission. Just… me trying to remember that making pictures can be fun again.

It’s been a while since I’ve done this. Partly because the vibe out in public has felt more tense—like everyone is bracing for something, and everyone is watching everyone. Since the ICE raids started around here, that background hum of suspicion feels louder. And even beyond that: smartphones kind of flooded the world with “photography,” and somehow the magic got diluted. Not because the camera got worse—because the social feeling around taking pictures got heavier. Like you’re always one misunderstanding away from a weird moment.

But I miss the old feeling.

I used to shoot a lot of analog—mostly with a Zorki (my scrappy Soviet Leica clone) and a plastic Holga that could turn a normal scene into a dream with one light leak. I’m not using them right now because film + development costs have gotten steep. So yeah: I’m using an emulator app on my phone. And honestly? It gets you surprisingly close to the spark.

The point wasn’t to overthink, or to “capture” anything important. The point was to shoot from the hip—give myself permission to walk, notice, and press the shutter without asking the world for approval first.

If you feel that same tension—paranoia, self-consciousness, the “what will people think?” loop—this is your reminder: you can take a short walk and make art anyway. Even if the feeling doesn’t fully go away… you can still come back with something real.
Created by: anonymous in daily-page on Feb 19, 2026, 7:11 PM
Created by: anonymous in daily-page on Feb 19, 2026, 7:10 PM
Created by: anonymous in daily-page on Feb 19, 2026, 7:10 PM
Created by: anonymous in daily-page on May 17, 2025, 4:04 AM
A dog doesn’t understand death. Not the way we do. He understands silence. He understands that someone who was always there is now not.
He waits by doors that won’t open. He listens for footsteps that only memory still makes. He sniffs at the air for a scent that’s already fading.
But he never hears the words: “She’s gone.” “He passed.” “Never again.”
So in his heart, you’re still alive— just elsewhere. Delayed. Caught in some long errand beyond comprehension.
And isn’t that what we humans do too? We know the facts, we say the words— but inside, we keep waiting. For a call. A knock. A laugh in the next room. As if love had no burial rights. As if memory was a leash tied to a ghost.
Perhaps the dog suffers less because he doesn’t know it’s forever. But perhaps he suffers more, because he never stops hoping.
And maybe that’s what grief really is: the stubborn part of us that waits, ears perked, at a door that will never open again.
Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in daily-page on Dec 15, 2025, 12:25 AM
Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in daily-page on Dec 8, 2025, 12:17 AM
Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in united-states on Nov 24, 2025, 3:36 AM
Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in society-power-and-economy on Nov 23, 2025, 11:15 PM
Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in the-future on Nov 23, 2025, 10:17 PM
Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in united-states on Nov 22, 2025, 4:25 AM
Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in united-states on Nov 20, 2025, 4:03 AM
Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in united-states on Nov 19, 2025, 3:58 AM
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Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in united-states on Nov 17, 2025, 2:52 AM
Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in united-states on Nov 16, 2025, 3:26 AM
Created by: kwrites in moments-of-joy on May 29, 2025, 3:21 AM
I am stuck in a narrow, crowded road. I can see the beginnings of a traffic jam. This part of the city was, after all known, for its nightmarish traffic situation. One could get stuck among honking cars and two-wheelers, for hours on end. I throw up a silent prayer to the gods, to spare me from a traffic jam. I just dont have the energy to navigate cursing drivers, and pedestrians who didnt have a lick of road sense. "Why couldnt people in this blasted country just follow the damn traffic rules?" "Why did I choose to come here for school?" I can feel my thoughts spiraling as I quietly resign myself to being stuck here for hours. A sudden cool breeze, breaks my reverie. This wasnt just any kind of breeze, it was the sort that brought the sweet promise of rain with it. I feel a new sort of awareness, as I sit up a little straighter. I take in my surroundings as if for the first time. A broad smile, splits my face, as I breathe in the wind carrying the scent of the earth. It reminds me of home, of the many many evenings I spent dancing and laughing in the rain with my siblings. I tilt my face up to the sky as if to greet a long lost friend. I relax, as the first drops, of rain hit me, causing delicious shivers to race up my body......
Created by: gerardfil in andorra on May 27, 2025, 2:29 AM
No, seriously. The Consell General (our parliament) is inside a building smaller than most banks.
It’s wedged right into a bend in the road in Andorra la Vella. It has a parking garage underneath.
In theory, you could run for office, park your car, and walk into the chamber in under three minutes.
I once tried to explain this to a coworker from Berlin. He laughed for five straight minutes.
And yet, it works.
Our political system is one of the oldest in Europe — we’ve had co-princes since the 1200s. One is the Bishop of Urgell (Catalonia), and the other is the President of France.
It’s weird. But stable. And very us.
Maybe you don’t need a palace if you’ve got snow, fiber internet, and municipal hot springs.
New Parliament of Andorra, headquarters of the General Council of Andorra since 2011.
Created by: gerardfil in andorra on May 27, 2025, 2:28 AM
When I was a child, I thought every country had ski lockers at the supermarket.
That’s Andorra. Small, yes. But we live vertically — and very much on our own terms.
I was once asked by an American tourist if we use euros “like France does.” I told him we do. Then I told him we’re not France. Or Spain.
We’re both. And neither.
Catalan is our official language. We learn Spanish and French from childhood. Some of us speak Portuguese at home. Our newsstands carry newspapers from Madrid, Toulouse, and sometimes Lisbon.
And yet, we are something else entirely.
When I travel, people ask if I’m Spanish or French. I always hesitate. “I’m Andorran,” I say. Most smile politely. A few ask if that’s in Africa.
It’s okay. We’re used to being overlooked. But the snow knows who we are.
We belong to mountains. And to each other.

Created by: roberto.c.alfredo in united-states on May 11, 2025, 12:54 PM