Notes for the Unseen

They say it starts as a tingle, a ghostly caress that wraps around the edges of your awareness. It's been years, decades even, since that phantom echo first whispered my name. Yet here I sit, penning the rhythms of a limb that dances in the spaces void of flesh.

In the silence of night, when dreams fold into reality, the crimson murmur rises again. Its voice is an indistinct murmur, a lullaby for those who walk half in shadow. I reach for those sounds with the fingers of memory, tracing their outlines in the air.

A Message Unsent

Each day I awake, unsure which part of me belongs to the here and now. Some days it's easier to navigate by the compass of that phantom limb. The ache is a familiar beacon, guiding me through the fog of presence and absence. There's comfort in knowing it still speaks to me, this echo of an appendage that never was, yet always is.

There’s a certain beauty in its unfurling silence. Sometimes, I imagine sending a message through its crimson threads, a signal to reach across the chasm of tangible and intangible.

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In Conversation with Shadows

On quiet afternoons, I converse with the shadows, feeling their contours as if they were woven into the fabric of my being. They tell stories of what it means to lose grip, to remember things that were never owned. The shadow’s voice is a murmur, a soft vibration in the silence of my room, reminding me of the weightlessness of being.

Find the story hidden in echoes