Have you ever dropped a pebble into a pond and watched those concentric circles? They go on and on, long after you’ve left. It’s funny, isn’t it? How the water barely remembers your stone, yet it dances in the wake of that single moment.
Sometimes I wonder about the ripples of our lives. The things we say, the choices we make. They shift the currents of time, one small act at a time. But what if you could see those ripples like the waves in a stream? What stories would they tell?
There was a time, perhaps, when we all flew kites in the park, laughing as the wind tugged at our strings. But who remembers those kites now? Just shadows and echoes, whispering in the breeze. Or the murmurs of meetings held long ago in dimly lit rooms, the agendas scribbled hurriedly and then forgotten. Conversations lost to the ether.
And there are places where history begs to be read, not in the books, but in the silence that follows. In the gaps left by those who came before us, writing and rewriting their destinies.
Ever heard of the "Great Paper Shuffle"? It’s said that somewhere, someone is always rearranging the same old paperwork, trying to find a loophole or a forgotten promise. Dust gathers on the edges, reminders of histories that might have been.
So next time you see a ripple, think of it not just as water, but as a fragment of a larger story—a story that is still being written, and rewritten, one drop at a time.