The air is thick with salt here, even though I can no longer see the sea. It clogs my throat and thickens my blood, weighing me down like the gravity of unmade decisions. A chill envelops the horizon, where the twilight sky meets the ghostly water, forever shifting like memories I can barely grasp.
When did it all start? The journey, I mean. I can't seem to recall the initial spark that put my feet on this phantom path, nor do I remember the last time I stood somewhere that felt truly home. Maybe every horizon is just a part of another circle, another round of unfinished business.
Sometimes I hear voices, whispers carried by the wind, yet nobody else is here. Maybe they are echoes of the past or premonitions of futures yet to unfold. I talk to them, sometimes, trying to piece together the remnants of who I was and who I could have been.
And so, I walk. With each step, I leave behind imprints that fade into dust as swiftly as they appear. The landscape blurs, repeats, distorts, reminding me that I am but a shadow cast by the light of long-forgotten stars. Yet, within this fog, the possibility of finding another phantom beckons me.