The clock tick-tocks, or does not, in the corners of my mind where shadows cast not their shape but their echo, an echo not heard but felt as a breeze brushing against the memory of days unspent.
Your footsteps, phantomic, they dance across the letters, lingering on the forgotten third sentence of a paragraph that never began, never intended to begin, yet here it unravels in a stream—much like this sentence itself, a conduit of silent conversations and resonating spaces.
Did you hear that? A whisper, perhaps the crack of a door long sealed in the past, leading to rooms not listed on maps drawn of hand, where secrets unravel in the softness of written words.
This is a note to self: reflections are never in the water but rather in the mind, a mind that reflects not on being a mirror but on being itself a complex tapestry.
The invisible rain pelting against the glass of reality, an echo of thoughts distilled to droplets, each a fragment of a greater whole, each a universe of its own, and now they pool at the edges of the known world, waiting, wanting...to flow?
Lost Pathways | Echoes of Silence