Time whispers secrets in tones only the wind understands, each note a reminder of the transient nature of all things precious. Roads are shadows traced by footsteps, yet those that follow seldom see the paths in their wake, blind to the serenade of their own making.
The ugliest truth, perhaps, is that beauty is fleeting—an ever-dimming echo in the vast expanse of existence. We chase moments like moths to flames, creating webs of nostalgia that cling to the heart like morning mist, beautiful until it burns away, revealing the rawness beneath the sheen.
A whisper of wings overhead, a flicker of thought that refuses to settle, spiraling through the lattice of reason. Inside, the heart beats a rhythm known only to itself, a serenade of solitude playing on repeat. Lost in the melody, we forget the lyric—the story untold scribbled in the margins of time.
Remember to listen to whispers hidden in the fabric of now, they tell of what was and what will be—not in absolutes, but in shades of gray and flickers of light. Navigate through the echoes, let them trace your journey in patterns only visible to those who pause to reflect.
Perhaps there lies the truth beneath, in the serenade that never stops, even when the world falls silent. In the truest, ugliest sense, beauty is in the acceptance of this endless hymn. Embrace the tracery, and you may find peace in the chaos of the cosmos.
Pathway of Dreams