What could possibly go wrong

[ieg0r]

This winter moved quietly. Nothing stood out as particularly remarkable, and yet it didn’t feel empty either. I spent a good part of it absorbed in Rhythm of War. I hadn’t expected to get so drawn in, but page after page kept pulling me deeper, and before I knew it, entire evenings had passed. It’s been a while since a book took over like that.

The rest was a steady flow of familiar things. Morning walks while the frost still clung to the ground, tea warming my hands, and a sky shifting slowly into day. There’s something in those cold, pale mornings that clears the mind in a way nothing else quite does.

Now and then, I stopped by a café. If I arrived early enough, I could order a croissant still warm from the oven—always with chocolate, my favorite. Especially when it’s freshly baked, there’s a kind of quiet satisfaction to it. Nothing symbolic. Just a pastry done well, at the right moment.

Some evenings I’d pause just to take in the atmosphere—how the air felt, the way the light fell. Not for any particular reason. Just because something in it felt worth noticing.

A couple of quotes stayed with me during this time. One was: “Not everything in life that is important is measurable. Not everything that is measurable is important.” It’s a reminder that the weight of something doesn’t always show up in numbers or clear outcomes. That there’s a different kind of value in how something feels, or what it moves in you quietly over time.

Another was about the inner voice—and how there’s a difference between a coach and a critic. Both push you, but one believes in you. That distinction seemed worth remembering, especially when working toward things that don’t unfold quickly. The tone we take with ourselves matters more than it seems.

Looking back, these weeks weren’t marked by milestones. But they left something behind all the same. A texture, maybe. A tone. Enough to remember them by.

[ieg0r]

The Weight of Change, the Lightness of Moving Forward

A year ago, I was a different person. Not entirely different—just a little more rigid, a little more caught up in how things should be, a little less accepting of how things simply are. Somewhere along the way, I learned to stop rushing, to stop worrying about things outside of my control. Instead of sprinting toward an idea of where I thought I should be, I started approaching life like a marathon—one steady step at a time.

Change isn’t always obvious when you’re in the middle of it. But as the year turned, I looked back and realized how much lighter I felt. Not because life became easier, but because I stopped carrying so much unnecessary weight.

I saw this shift in many small ways. In how I returned to 3D art—not as something to grind myself into exhaustion over, but as something to enjoy. A slow and deliberate return, taking the time to find inspiration again rather than forcing it. In how I read Kant, struggled through it, and then picked up Edgedancer and realized that English books no longer felt like a challenge—just books. The struggle was gone, not because things got easier, but because I had changed.

One of the books I read last month, Dawnshard, had a line that stuck with me: "Imperfect worlds need imperfect solutions." For a long time, I hesitated too much, waiting for the right answer, the right moment. But sometimes, waiting for perfection means doing nothing at all. Maybe it’s better to act, to work with what you have, to move forward even if the path isn’t completely clear.

Another idea from the book resonated with me too: "Passionate people make their own luck." I don’t believe in omens, but I do believe in perspective. Sometimes, a "bad sign" is just an excuse to give up. Sometimes, a "good sign" is just something we decided to see as one. Maybe life is less about what happens and more about the meaning we choose to give it.

Even relationships can be like that. A brief chapter, a short-lived connection—something that could be seen as a disappointment, but wasn’t. Instead, it was a moment of warmth, a reminder that good things exist, even if they don’t last forever. A lesson in how to let go without resentment, without anger—just acceptance. Some things are meant to be long stories, and some are just a few pages. And that’s okay.

Some roads are meant to be walked with urgency, others at a steady pace. Some moments call for stillness, others for movement. But whether fast or slow, certain or uncertain—things keep unfolding, step by step.

Not rushing. Not pushing. Just going. And that, sometimes, is enough.

[ieg0r]

I recently finished reading The Moral Law and The Answer to the Question: What is Enlightenment? by Immanuel Kant. My interest in Kant began when I stumbled upon some of his ideas online. They resonated with me, so I decided to dive deeper and ordered these books.

Reading The Moral Law was challenging—it’s not an easy text, and I had to read it twice to truly grasp its meaning. But the effort was worth it. It made me reflect deeply on life, relationships, and the way we interact with others. I found myself wishing that Kant's philosophy was taught in schools, especially here in Ukraine.

For example, think about conversations. This is just one situation that encapsulates a much larger concept. Have you ever spoken to someone who seems to treat conversations as a way to satisfy their own desires? Maybe they brag about how generous they are, vent about how bad their situation is (as if to say, “Look how uniquely difficult my life is”), or bombard you with their beliefs—not to hear your opinion but to have their own echoed back at them. After such conversations, you often feel drained, shallow, or even used, as though something intangible was taken from you.

Now imagine a different kind of exchange—one where the other person genuinely cares about creating a meaningful connection. Someone who listens, asks thoughtful questions, and doesn’t feel insulted if you hold a different opinion. Kant’s philosophy made me rethink the purpose of such interactions and approach conversations in a way that feels more balanced and mutual.

This shift in perspective has also affected my relationships. I’ve started focusing less on what others think of me and more on pursuing my goals and fostering genuine connections. It’s surprising how freeing it feels to let go of the need to constantly prove yourself.

Kant’s ideas are so simple yet powerful: take responsibility for your actions, be kind—not only to others but also to yourself—and never treat people, including yourself, as mere tools for fulfilling desires. Since reading these works, I’ve started noticing more about the world around me and rethinking my priorities.

Although I wouldn’t recommend diving straight into Kant’s original texts unless you’re familiar with dense philosophical writing, there are excellent books that explain his ideas in simpler terms for beginners. I think they’re a great way to discover his philosophy without feeling overwhelmed.

In our fast-paced, social-media-driven world, where many people seem lost in shallow pursuits and lack a strong moral compass, Kant’s lessons feel more relevant than ever.

[ieg0r]

A Journey of 42.195 km: Reflections on My First Marathon

A month ago, on October 14th, I completed my first marathon. It was a journey I trained for over three months, filled with both excitement and doubt. The 42.195 km, the cheering crowds, the music, the pain, the exhaustion—everything led me to that moment when I crossed the finish line.

The weather was perfect, and my new shoes turned out to be a solid choice—no blisters. The first lap felt almost easy, but by the second, the struggle started. Around the 35 km mark, I felt every part of my body urging me to stop, but I didn’t. It became more than just a race; it became a battle of will.

It wasn’t about physical strength alone, but the mental resolve to keep moving when every step felt impossible. As I ran, I realized that we are often our biggest obstacles. Breaking through the limits we set for ourselves is where we truly grow.

This marathon was about proving to myself that perseverance can overcome anything. It was more than just running; it was a statement about resilience.

I’m grateful for this experience—grateful that I didn’t give up, and grateful for the lessons learned. The marathon was just as much about discovering what I’m made of as it was about completing a race.