Morning splits the horizon as quietly as a thought gently rippling across an untouched pond. The fingers of daylight lacking intent, caressing the edges of the night, leaving trails of forgotten dreams vast as empty spaces between planets. Where is the line drawn between truth and what simply withered into dust?
Footprints lead—some claim—to destinies, others to nowhere, erasing their presence in the untamed soil of yesterdays. Sift through the grains of sand slipping like promises through fingers too intent on grasping instead of simply holding. Paths unseen matter only to those who favor illusions.
Listen closely to the murmur beneath the surface, a babbling brook of voices and thoughts and echoes of things that never happened, yet always will. The question held like a stone in a pocket, pondered, weighed, then abandoned. Perhaps rebirth exists in the nakedness of now, stripped of its exaggerated past. Or is it the labyrinth today that binds us, unknowing?