In the quiet hours before dawn, when the world shivers on the edge of consciousness, I find myself pondering the fragile strands that hold our waking lives to the dreams we dare not forget. It is here, in these moments of solitude, that the vastness of everything we’ve known seems to contract, tethered by the thinnest of silken threads.
Yesterday, as shadows lengthened, I walked through the park where the old trees stretched their gnarled limbs skyward, desperate for light they may not ever see again. Beneath their branches, truths are whispered, truths that echo through the corridors of the mind like spectral voices in a forgotten mansion.
I once believed in the permanence of place, in the solidity of purpose, but the more I listened, the more I understood that everything we create, every moment we craft, is but a temporary tether in an unravelling cosmos.