In the whisper of indistinct echoes, we find ourselves wandering amongst dreams that stretch infinitely. The footprints we trace, though imprints in soft soil, skim the surface of the ocean's call. A journey led not by destination, but by reasoning of circles.
“Why wander the path?” a voice murmurs, as shadows dance in twilight glares.
The mere act of treading these paths raises questions like clouds in a summer sky. Where do they lead when not bound by our desires? The footprints ask not where you've been, but affirmatively, where have you not been? The answer: nowhere, but perhaps, nowhere else.
Consider the meandering courses of streams and whether they wish to reach the finalized sea or remain in a fluid confliction of turns. Does the traveler not become the water, drawn yet partially quenched by a thirst unknown?