Hazy Dreams of Tomorrow

The clocks tick at irregular intervals, whispered reminders of obligations that shift like shadows when I turn towards them. In these wandering thoughts, the sunrises and sunsets are nebulous—the colors bleed into one another and fade away. Time is an illusion, freshly minted but just as likely to tarnish.

I dream of fields, but I walk in crowded streets—vision skimming the distant horizon while feet grip the concrete in tangible. These fugitive dreams seem louder than the waking world's incessant chatter. Voices echo, but they reflect like distorted mirrors, advancing and retreating in the endless city of thought.

And yet, within the rush, there is a calm that not only washes over but also binds with strands of silk, lighting pathways where shadows dare not tread. In these moments, the future appears, not as a singular path, but an ever-expanding kaleidoscope of possibilities.