Once, I stood at the edges of existence, at the fringe where realities blur. Hands reaching out, grasping for shapes within shades. The void echoes through ages, returns the whispers of what was.
Have you ever stared into a mirror and seen more than just your own visage? Mirrors are the silent witnesses of our private metamorphoses, eternally reflecting transient identities sketched in fleeting light.
There exists a paradox in reflection; it shows but never reveals. Is a reflection more real than the substance? Powerless to act, yet forever watching. The secrets held behind the eyes may linger, but echoes break through their silence.
Amidst endless corridors of dreams, I walk. Doors ajar, leading to oceans of memory, where tides consume forgotten shores of consciousness. Each step is a footnote in the cosmic script I cannot read, but yet, I follow.
I hear the resonance from chambers untold, the voice of others as lost as myself. I grasp their shared symphony, and wonder: when the echoes fade, will there be anything left?
Do you ponder upon such thoughts, seeking clarity within chaos? Or perhaps within chaos lies clarity undiscovered—a shadow's tale still unwritten.
Turn, twist, pivot, reflect. Step softly along the margins of self-definition—this echo, this shadow, this light. Whisper echoes upon canvases unseen.