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@mindoglyphics

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This is a dream mine, kid. Grab yourself a shovel. 👽
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500. Miles? I remember that song playing when we walked past the fountain in San Diego. Some guy on a guitar. Sun reflecting on the water like the inside of a lava lamp.

500. Moments? There have been plenty. The top of that mountain. The bottom of that ocean. I replay them over and over when my head hits the pillow.

500. Crumbs? Pieces of me I've scooped out and thrown to the Instagram gods. A sacrifice to the templars. I always said I would journal, maybe this was it all along.

500. Daydreams? I heard someone say that if you blow a smoke ring up to heaven it turns into a halo. Imagination is what makes us fly - I intend to wring mine of all it has to offer.

500. Posts? A little anticlimactic considering the above. But commemorating moments is the antidote to drifting in undefined space. I've shared many wacky pieces with this great community. Thank you guys for being so supportive and reading all my gibberish - it means the world.

500. More to come? Maybe. The good thing about potential is that it's infinite, and there is a whole story that still needs writing.

Until then, much love.

G 👽 taken in Pantanal, Brazil by @mindoglyphics

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19 days ago

A heavy bass rocks your spine. "I know these will all be stories one day," you say between beats. "The sun will come up one too many times until these moments fade to distant memories. Some blurry face, on some blurry night."

Bodies move around you. Their silhouettes cutting through beams of light as if you're dying or being reborn again - it's hard to tell.

"We'll grow up and become somebody's partner or boss or parent. We'll build great things and make mistakes we'll wear like scars."

To your right is a group of friends that hug each other like it's the last time they'll ever hug again. Across the room stands a girl with long wisps of curly hair flying into the air before drumming onto her shoulders.

"Life could go anywhere," you explain, and the words kind of make your index finger twitch. "But one day it'll all be over."

A new track drops and the joint loses its mind. Then you look left and you look right only to realise that there's nobody there, putting their ear between the beats. You're alone in that room full of people.

Maybe they're all too busy living. Or maybe they know something you don't. Maybe this time, the sun will forget to come up, and tonight will finally be infinite. taken in Athens Greece by @mindoglyphics

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a month ago

The guide steps in a puddle as he mentions, "You're about to enter the no-photo zone."

Favelas like this have allowed so many tourists in that you start to feel like you're in a petting zoo. It's only when you lock eyes with a fifteen-year-old holding an AK-47 bigger than he is that you wipe that smile off your face. This is not the Instagram paradise white girls flock to for a drone shot with the Brazilian flag hanging over their shoulders. It's the one cops don't get paid nearly enough to risk their lives entering.

Your guide takes you to a restaurant, and the tour group is told to order, lest you offend your hosts. A waiter wearing a bandana over his nose and mouth stands over the French tourist. Too close.

A bead of sweat forms on your temple, and you hope it's not shiny enough to look expensive.

Pierre reads the menu, surprised to see they sell sushi.

"Yes, this place has the best sushi," your guide says.

Pierre checks the Google reviews. "4.8 stars. Sushi is the highlight!"

He orders it. They bring him chicken.

"Wait, um, por favor. This doesn't look like sushi."

The waiter steps forward, a long gold-plated rifle slung over his shoulder. "It's sushi," he says.

Pierre looks forward and swallows the breast whole. "Yes," he says, marking the restaurant five stars on his phone. "Sushi." by @mindoglyphics

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2 months ago

First date. She has rasta braids that curtain over her shoulders. Fits in with the rest of the demographic in this alleyway cafe - her suggestion, of course.

You ask for an iced americano. No sugar, no milk, no frills - you tell yourself it's because you're hard as nails. The waiter grins and says "you mean coffee flavoured water?"

Your date laughs. You ball your hand into a fist as he leaves and think of a comeback way too late. You get up and chase him down. The girl jacks your wallet while you change your order to espresso. taken in Salvador, Bahia, Brazil by @mindoglyphics

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3 months ago

People think this is a game. It isn't. It's a banner to fly under.

When you open your arms alongside 85,000 people singing in unison, what you're really telling the world is: give me a place to belong.

Sport is built on stories, and this one is yours. The beautiful moments. The dark chapters. Kids drawn into violence over a flag. A colour. Blood on a knuckle. A gash across a forehead. Give me something to fight for.

People are simpler than we pretend. Where else do the lost sheep go? The misfits? Some find religion. Others find this. Give me a home.

The crowd roars. 85,000 voices like a battle cry. For a moment, you wish life could bend beneath the weight of that sound. That all of us could be a little happier. A little less alone.

Then the whistle blows. You're swallowed by a sea of colour. The ground trembles. The sky disappears.

And all those lost souls close their eyes and tilt their heads upward - to God, to the universe, to themselves. Please. For once, just give me a win. taken in Estadio "Monumental" Antonio V. Liberti by @mindoglyphics

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4 months ago

You love the countryside. Something about sitting in a cottage dressed in rustic charm while you eat Wagyu and watch Netflix on an 80 inch flatscreen feels like an homage to a simpler time. A better time.

Your head has been cluttered. AI this and vibe coding that. The nature walks allow you to decompress. Especially when you know that they end with a side of Asian tea and Cuban cigars at a 17th century manor house. It's important to embrace tradition.

Though the bank holiday can get a little sticky. Big city folk all have the same bright idea to escape into a staycation of expensive proportions. You fight tooth and nail to beat them to the bookings. They aren't taking your Padel court.

You sip Palomas at Soho Farmhouse - because you like the unrefined look, but not the kind that allows commoners through the door. Rustic chic, that's the ceiling.

Someone at the table says, "we should totally go to Clarkson's farm bro." But you don't respond. You're too focused on the noise from the side of the road.

You put down your caviar and crane your neck. David Beckham rides by in a horse-drawn Rolls Royce. "Damn," you say. "That guy sure knows culture." by @mindoglyphics

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4 months ago

You've seen it before. Young kid goes travelling one day and decides to never come back. Turns into a 40 year old Peter Pan. The world has him now, they say.

He's got stories. That one witch that cursed him in Cambodia. The time in Guatemala when he hiked the volcano. Japan. "Bourdain called Tokyo a psychedelic experience."

You smile. You can't figure out if he's spent his whole life running toward something or away from it. "Sounds incredible."

"But do you know what the bad part is?" He stares at a shot of tequila fresh off the bar. "You travel long enough, and life back home becomes a blur. Experiences on the road are only rented. Shared with pockets of people who are temporary."

"And?"

"Maybe the only thing that makes them real is that you'll be old one day, and can talk about them with the person who was right there next to you."

The club speakers blare a rendition of Bandoleros, and the crowd goes nuts.

He downs his tequila and nods his head to the beat as his smile straightens. "Guess that's why they call it living the dream." taken in Buenos Aires, Argentina by @mindoglyphics

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5 months ago

He was afraid of this moment. When the money runs out and it all gets a little too much.

A deep breath. This is it. The last stop. Bursts of wind slap his neck, and he shakes his head to stay focused.

He peers over the edge. They say a lot of bodies are out to rest down there. An old folk tale - the cliffs holding their souls, not forever, of course, just safekeeping until they're ready to return to this-

Another slap of wind. It wakes him from his daydream. He grinds his teeth.

Out in the open, the waves dont seem as tall or sharp as they do below him. Maybe it'll only hurt at first, then settle into a cool tide that-

Bitch slap.

"AHHHH," he screams. "ALLOW ME SOME FUCKING POETRY WILL YOU!"

The sound echoes along the cliffs. His face turns red, enough is enough. He lifts a foot off the edge.

But at that very moment, the clouds part. As if his voice was a blade to slice through the grey, allowing the sky to bleed light. It warms his skin.

"Jeez." A chuckle escapes. "Thank you."

But as his leg hovers, he catches the silver seam from the cloud directly above him. It stops him in his tracks. He exhales, and brings his foot back to the ground. Figures a lifetime of silver linings means at least he's got a lot of fucking silver. taken in Cliffs of Moher, Ireland by @mindoglyphics

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6 months ago

An instant message pings. It's your boss. “Propose we approach this with a helicopter view. What do you think?”

The question fills you with dread. You’re not sure why. Between the zoom-outs, bullet points, double-clicks, helicopter views, crib sheets, pivot tables and first principles, your corporate speak should be impeccable. But this feels different.

Maybe it’s the insinuation. What do you think? Who says you think at all? Your opinion used to be the domain of your ex-wife. Now, it's your AI's. Every original thought you might have once had the capacity to produce has been ground down into fine powder and fed into something sharper and faster. Better.

These days, you'll even order the machine to come up with the best version of the question. Because it’s not enough to outsource the answers.

What do you think? You don’t have the raw material to incubate a thought anymore. All you can do is select from a menu. Your fingers tremble. Relax, it's fine. You tell yourself it makes you better than you used to be. More efficient. More executive.

What do you think? Maybe it doesn’t matter. You call the shots around here. Boss. King. Your herman miller desk chair, a throne.

The message pings again.

“Could you give me a quick two-pager on that?” taken in Stockholm, Sweden by @mindoglyphics

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6 months ago

Ma squeezes my hand. It’s different than before, forcing my fingers to stack over each other. I can feel the callouses, grated into her skin after years in the labour camps.

“You just stick with Ma, Petey. Okay?”

“Um…”

A Droid begins roll call at the far end. A wide yellow beam swallows the first inmate, then spits the count of today’s labour above her head.

“Petey.” She squeezes again. “Okay?”

“Okay, Ma.”

INMATE 374, THOMPSON, MEG. THIRTY FOUR ROCKS BROKEN. TWENTY SEVEN SHIFTED.

There's air in my lungs, begging for release. I keep it in, let it slip through my nostrils in short, silent bursts. You don't interrupt roll call.

Ma presses her lips together. They look like one of those horseshoes she draws when she tells me stories about the old days. About Pa’s ranch. Riding out into the fields. It was before I was born. Before... this.

INMATE 375, MATTHEWS, RUSSELL. SIXTY FOUR ROCKS BROKEN. FIFTY SEVEN SHIFTED.

Today was different. Ma's face was soft. It's never soft. Maybe it's because she wasn't out at labour for once. Said the Droids gave her a day off. We sat on the floor and drew animals.

INMATE 376, HILL, JOSEPH. ELEVEN ROCKS BROKEN. EIGHT SHIFTED.

My heart goes limp. The beam turns red.

His knee is busted. He fell off one of the mounds yesterday. But the medic said he was fit to work. Said he was fine.

I look up at Ma. A big digital tab on her chest reads 378.

Then there is shouting on the other side.

“Work score, 2/5. Quota unmet. First offence.”

Ma tightens her grip.

“Penalty: Eight weeks. Solitary confinement.”

“No!” he screams. The sound echoes around the dome ceiling. “LEAVE ME ALONE YOU FUCKS. YOU FUCKING FU-”

Another Droid steps in. Takes him away.

“Petey,” Ma whispers. “You know Ma loves you, right?”

I'm not sure if I should answer. I open my mouth. Close it.

INMATE 377, MASON, MARIA. TWENTY SEVEN ROCKS BROKEN. SEVENTEEN SHIFTED.

“Whatever happens,” Ma says, “you're my rock. Always were.”

My eyes blur. I can barely see. “Bu-”

“Shhh.” She instructs. “You be good, you hear? You be a rock.”

The Droid steps forward. Heavy footsteps. Its eyes turn yellow, and a holy beam of light shoots out.

Ma’s fingers loosen. She smiles. taken in Bangkok, Thailand by @mindoglyphics

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8 months ago

Lights. They flash with the manic energy of an amusement park, but there isn't a child in sight. Max leans over the table, fingers brushing the emerald felt. Sounds. The ivory ball clatters against the red and black numbers. Tapping against his skull. Tap… Tap… Tap. Tap.

“9, Red,” the dealer calls. Why does she sound like his mother? “Max, it’s 9 am and you’re still in bed!”

The woman reaches out. For a second, he expects a warm embrace. Honey, it’s okay. I’m so proud of you. But the dealer just scoops up his chips and shovels them into the house corner.

A hand bites into the space between his shoulder and neck. Max jolts upright, stiff as a nail about to be hammered into a wall. He gasps, turning. “Sir? Your Gin and Tonic?”

He tries to steady his breathing. It’s just a drink. She’s just a waitress. He scans the room again. The slot machines chirping like a grown-up’s arcade; the roulette wheels spinning in an endless carousel of doom.

The dealer signals a new spin. Max grabs his drink, hoovering a sip before setting it on the ledge below. He pats his pocket. It’s flat, a weight very different to when he started, and that’s not just talking about tonight.

Shit. No, you can claw this back. You’ve got this, he tells himself. You can't be beaten.

“Sorry?” the dealer asks.

Max leans back, hands up, wanting no beef. He needs to relax. He tries to recall that one therapy session he attended under protest. The doctor had been a dry man with a carrot wedged so far up his ass it became a second spine. He said that in moments like these, Max needs to go zen. Find his safe place.

Max does as instructed. He goes back to kicking it with the boys. Doobie smoke in the air. I Believe I Can Fly blaring on his stereo. Those were the days.

The dealer watches him with the same narrowed eyes and furrowed brows as the doctor, as his mother, as everyone.

“Any bets?” the dealer asks.

The panic recedes. R. Kelly soars. Max taps his pocket one last time. “All in on 15, Black.” taken in Vienna, Austria by @mindoglyphics

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9 months ago

There’s chatter in the garden. Voices climbing over each other. Cutlery clicking. A head knocks back and belts out an obnoxious rich guy laugh. Movement. Always movement.

Suddenly, a sound. The high-pitched ring of a knife tapping on a glass. A man steps onto the podium, his chest broad, pumped full of air.

“The sun rises in the east, and sets in the west!” He calls, rotating his index finger into the sky as if he is conducting an orchestra. The maestro of a crowd’s heart. “But… ladies and gentlemen… our stories remain.”

It’s like riding a bike. Second nature. Give thanks. Belt reverant tales of love and success. As is customary when receiving an honorary award of this nature.

A spotlight bathes his tuxedo in a golden shadow. Almost like a cape. “And of course, none of this would ever be possible, without my loving wife,” he points an open palm towards her. “My rock. My true north.”

The crowd erupts. He raises his plaque, earned through honorary contributions to some other thing. Exit stage left. He walks around to the tables and chairs and the hundreds of people that are still clapping. One by one, he raises his glass, and begins to click. The personal touch. He always said it’s important.

But as he chimes through, the brightness dies down. The gold moulds, and turns grey. Dark. Sounds disappear.

Guests fade into the night. His wife becomes transparent, floating miles back to St Michael’s cemetery, where she has slept for the last year.

The man walks through his castle with a tremor in his steps. His broad shoulders caving inwards, almost wanting to touch each other. He places an old veined hand on the garden chair, rendered cold by the winter chill.

His daughters cross their arms and stare from feet away. Doctors say that association can jog the memory. Not because it will change anything. It’s a means to an end. Relief, for him. For them.

A tear runs down the eye of his youngest. It’s not of sadness. It’s joy. Seeing him so animated. He puts his hands out for balance. If she squints real hard, she can pretend like he’s up there on that podium again, pointing to the sky. The sun rises in the east, and sets in the west. Our stories remain. taken in Belvedere Palace,Vienna,Austria by @mindoglyphics

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9 months ago