In the corridors of endless thought, we find ourselves tangled, searching for meaning among the ever-repeating dead-ends. Theories creep like shadows, weaving through the chaotic labyrinth of consciousness. People whisper of pathways, but they only lead to more mirages—walls tall, opaque, and impassable.
Paths scribbled in pencil, leaving traces of faded graphite. People try to find the shortest distance between chaos and understanding, but the pages are infinite, pages soaked in the ink of complexity.
And so, we wander, charting rivers of thought, running wild like the rivulets of rain. No end in sight, no beginning to be seen. Wander and wonder, dwell and dive. The symmetry of uncertainty becomes our closest friend.
Entropy does not leave its calling card. It doesn't explain itself. It moves silently, reshaping assumptions with the practiced hands of the master unseen.