{"date": "2025-11-21T11:36:33.024554Z", "name": "Glory To The Brave", "tags": ["mizuyokaii", "visualpoetry", "aiart"], "image": "ipfs://bafybeigpcri26rm3nysnakqem5id7oj4j2agd7gixm5msc5cecz3xfsizu", "minter": "KT1Aq4wWmVanpQhq4TTfjZXB5AjFpx15iQMM", "rights": "No License / All Rights Reserved", "symbol": "OBJKTCOM", "formats": [{"uri": "ipfs://bafybeigpcri26rm3nysnakqem5id7oj4j2agd7gixm5msc5cecz3xfsizu", "fileName": "display.png", "fileSize": "1263161", "mimeType": "image/png", "dimensions": {"unit": "px", "value": "717x1024"}}, {"uri": "ipfs://bafybeictbcz4gygdtczyod6zbe3nmkgbnatfsrtydz5nudm22dkne2eoke", "fileName": "artifact.png", "fileSize": "62377262", "mimeType": "image/png", "dimensions": {"unit": "px", "value": "5376x7680"}}, {"uri": "ipfs://bafkreia5m2jn3xymcsnagkiju4bhrjx4dpdqgnkvpclls5uxx46ov75rxe", "fileName": "thumbnail.png", "fileSize": "208098", "mimeType": "image/png", "dimensions": {"unit": "px", "value": "280x400"}}], "creators": ["tz1Y1dzUUtPQRTKaDf1a5o3qqJffYYcPYcTf"], "decimals": "0", "royalties": {"shares": {"tz1Y1dzUUtPQRTKaDf1a5o3qqJffYYcPYcTf": "1000"}, "decimals": "4"}, "attributes": [], "displayUri": "ipfs://bafybeigpcri26rm3nysnakqem5id7oj4j2agd7gixm5msc5cecz3xfsizu", "artifactUri": "ipfs://bafybeictbcz4gygdtczyod6zbe3nmkgbnatfsrtydz5nudm22dkne2eoke", "description": "There was a time when I could feel the edges of things clearly.\nNow everything bleeds into everything else, \nlike watercolor left too long in the rain. \nI press my palm against my chest some mornings \njust to remember there's something still moving underneath, \nsomething that insists on continuing despite my silence.\n\nThe photographs don't change but I do. \nEvery time I look at them \nI'm further away from the person \nwho knew those faces by touch instead of memory. \nThey become stories I tell myself about a life I think I had, \nin a language I'm slowly forgetting how to speak.\n\nI've learned that loss is not an event but a room you wake up in. \nThe walls are always the same distance away. \nThe door is always in the same place. \nYou can memorize every crack in the ceiling \nbut that doesn't mean you know how to leave. \nSome days I don't even remember trying.\n\nThere's a specific weight to watching yourself disappear. \nThe slow subtraction of response, \nthe way you stop reaching for the phone, \nthe way laughter becomes something you observe in others \nlike a documentary about a foreign country you'll never visit.\n\nIt doesn't really get easier; you just get better at carrying it.\nThe weight doesn't change. \nYour back just learns to bend in new ways. \nYour hands learn to hold onto nothing and call it strength. \nYou learn to mistake endurance for healing.\n\nSo glory to the brave, \nto everyone who wakes up and takes up the weight again. \nTo those who've made homes in the shaded places \nwhere light doesn't reach but somehow, we still exist. \nTo the ones who keep moving through the grey, \nnot because they believe in destinations anymore, \nbut because stopping feels like the final betrayal. \n\nGlory, Glory to the brave.", "mintingTool": "https://objkt.com/mintV2", "thumbnailUri": "ipfs://bafkreia5m2jn3xymcsnagkiju4bhrjx4dpdqgnkvpclls5uxx46ov75rxe"}