Counting Steps

A solitary path winds through the mind's landscape, cobbled with memories that wear thin like time's eroding touch. Each step echoes in a cathedral of forgotten moments.

Shadows dance along the periphery, tracing footprints left by unspoken words. Whispered confessions linger in the echo, dissolving into the mist that blankets the horizon.

The journey is not linear. Lines unwritten map this terrain, steering with hands unseen, frail as spider silk. We count steps out of habit, reverberations of rituals that once grounded us to earth.

Silence stitches these fragments together, a fabric woven from both light and dark. Reflections ripple across a surface resembling glass but feel like warm, indifferent sand.

And so, the counting begins. Above, a constellation emerges in invisible ink. Patterns form between misaligned stars—arcane truths lost to the stars’ indifferent dance.

• Aetheric Murmurs
• Whispered Echoes
• Silent Gardens

Once, words formed sentences that meant something. Now they only mark the passage, semantics left to align themselves later. One might question this practice, but questions dissolve in twilight.

Introspection, a soft glow in the day-night theater of our thoughts, observes from the wings.

Here lies the choice: to step; to remain still; to discern which worlds observing each other breathe—conscious intersections in a cosmos yet charcoal-clear.