Amongst the bark and branches, I found whispers of the forgotten forest. Elders speak in rustling leaves, their ancient tongues woven through the tapestry of roots beneath the soil. Each thrum is a synaptic echo, a message decoded only by those who listen with patient hearts.
Have you ever wondered what the trees would write, if given ink made from their own sap? Messages encrypted in the language of bark and branches, known only to the wind and the wandering souls. Here lies a memoir, not of man, but of the silent guardians of time.
In this sacred grove, reflections stir in the obsidian pools of consciousness. Each thought a seed, each breath a gentle gust, nurturing the whispers until they resonate in the space between reality and dreams.