In the silent hour of dusk, where shadows learn to breathe, I found solace in the ticking clock. It spoke a language of its own, an erratic dance of hands on a face imagined long ago. Do clocks dream, I wondered, as I stared into the abyss of swiftly fading thoughts?
Beneath the surface of daily chores lies a current as old as the sun. It drags whispered stories, collective sighs of shoulders carrying unseen weights. Lift a curtain, peer into that realm, see how it's woven. And yet the strands tangle in tender knots, refusing order, embracing chaos sweet as a lullaby.
Perhaps it’s the coffee that sparks it all. A dark cup, half-full, balancing perfectly on the edge. Steam whispers, inviting warmth and scalding truth in equal measure. Do we drink it to stay awake, or to flirt with the veil between dreams and wakefulness? Each sip an anchor, each moment a driftwood tale.
Solitary Lights whisper secrets of unsaid words, or interruptions that shape the night.
The garden out back refuses to bloom exactly as planned. Lilies, cactus, careless daisies—they conspire without warning. A plot that redefines the gardener. Does the abyss laugh at these petty designs, at our arrogant thrumming pursuits?
And in the end, the clock ticks on, a metronome of chaos dancing tempestuously under a facade of order. Each tick, a contraction and expansion of the universe, a reminder of braiding threads in a tapestry unseen, cyclic, beautiful.