It's a strange thing, silence. Feels vast like an ocean, doesn't it? I find myself adrift here, with words _____ unspoken, floating beneath the surface like lost memories. Sometimes I whisper into that void, hear the echoes chase my tail, back into the quiet corners of my mind. Ever wander out there? Just past the edge, where the light flickers?
Wander? More like sink, I suppose. Sink and forget.
Come close; let me show you the relics. Fragments of conversations wedged between invisible walls, invisible to the eyes of those not searching for them. Paths paved not with understanding, but with echoes, guiding in a direction not desired by those unready, fading softly.
Every now and again, you hear a voice, can't quite place it. Like that time you overheard something… was it important? Probably not—not to anyone other than yourself, I reckon. But there it is, just above the silence. It beckons, a soft hum of familiarity. No sense running after it; it'll find you again, someday.
Rain-soaked illusions whispered through cracked pavements.
There are strangers we meet repeatedly along these echoing paths. Their faces blur, and names... well, names are unnecessary, aren't they? The conversations evanesce like fog, and yet there's comfort in knowing they'll cross our paths once more. In the realm of the ephemeral, time messes around with permanence, or maybe we do, forgetful ghosts we are.
A map, of sorts, might lead somewhere. Or maybe not. It wouldn’t be the first map to mislead. The terrain's familiar, yet unknown. Each step a reverberation in the silent symphony.