Across the endless expanse, the whispering dunes murmur timeless truths. With every step, the sand swallows footprints as quickly as they are made, a mockery of permanence.
What lies beyond the horizon? A question asked by many, answered by none. Yet it is not the destination that defines the journey, but the act of moving itself—a process of inhalation and exhalation in the rhythm of the universe.
Consider the footprints, fleeting impressions on a canvas of time. Do they matter? Or are they mere echoes of a traveler seeking veneer of meaning upon shifting sands?
Footprints: . . . . . . . . . .
Our paths diverge, yet all roads converge at the same singular point—an existential loop, where every beginning is an end, and every end a new genesis. The silent sands await, indifferent and eternal.
Dance of Solitude