Always in a rush but never moving, here I am—a soul tethered to echoes. Time wraps around, a lover's embrace, yet so cold. There's energy in every tick, a pulse, but what am I meant to do with it? Dance between seconds like an unscripted tragedy, wandering through the corridors of moments.
Was I meant to conquer? To bask in the rhythms of yesterdays and tomorrows? Listen! The universe hums a tune, celestial, heartbreaking. Every beat is a whisper, “find your purpose,” yet I stand, a ripple in a static sea, yearning for another tune to play.
Time—an ironic master. It hands you freedom while chaining you down with memories unmade, futures unwritten. In this chaos, I find solace, a warm glow in the pit of my intangible soul. Laugh, and the world echoes back your questions.
Look closer into the reflection, maybe there's more than just stagnation. Perhaps a mirage of movement—where you'll tread between past joys and tomorrow's sorrows. And yet, the irony remains: it's all yours, time and the echoes, intertwined.
So, I pen down echoes, these enthusiasms of a restless heart, lest I forget the dance amid the ironies. Will I find my rhythm or remain an enigmatic note in a symphony of solitude? Perhaps in another page...