Once upon a distortion, where light danced on the edge of clarity and confusion, an ideal was whispered amongst the echoes. The whispers sought a face, or rather a reflection, but what they found was a multitude of endless corridors lined with mirrors.
Here, an enlightened figure stood, though with the funhouse mirror's touch: arms longer than comprehension, wisdom bending like a funnyman’s illusion. And they spoke, their voice a reverberation of silk and steel.
"Look at me," they said, "or perhaps it's you? This glass reveals not truth, but the pursuit of it, cloaked in shadow and spark."
In the depths of these reflections, a narrative was inscribed across the ethereal pane: a journey fragmented by seasons, each adorned with the fleeting nature of ultimate idealism. Paths diverged, converged, and then paradoxically, unraveled again. And along these paths, seekers transformed into their reflections, wisdom imparted not by knowing but experiencing the stretch and shrinkage of purpose.
Do you see yourself here? Or perhaps you see the wanderer?
Tread lightly, for enlightenment dances like a mirage and the ideal sways in rhythm with your doubts.