In the moment where shadows play games of hide-and-seek with the light, there rests a knowing that all starts with simplicity. A breath, pulse, threads of whispers woven into the cloth of consciousness—what we speak, we unweave. Illusion holds proudly, yet the truth lies dormant beneath the surface, waiting for ripples to stir its slumber. Through windows streaked with mist and dreams, reality is but a canvas, half-painted, half-worn away by time's brush.
The cracks in the facade speak their own language, one not taught in Schools of Knowing, nor in the Libraries of Illusions. It's here that I wander, lost yet found, tracing lines between the lines, listening to the silence that answers the questions unasked. Paths diverge in the undergrowth, choices unfurl like whispered secrets between the trees. Inscribed upon the bark of ages are the truths we do not speak, but feel when the fog lifts and reveals what it has obscured.
When I walk this path, it's not my feet that guide me but the echoes of what once was—and what might yet be, dancing on the edge of understanding. The borders of reality blur with every step, casting a mirage of what seems and what is. Do not fear the unseen truths that await beyond the horizon, where the sky kisses the earth in an embrace long-desired and seldom acknowledged. Here is where time pauses, and in this pause, we find a thousand stories left untold, comfort in their obscurity and beauty in their silence.