In the origami folds of cosmic paper, we find ourselves trapped, or perhaps found, by forgotten moments of infinity's sway. Here lies the contradiction: a paradoxical embrace of unseen hands weaving the fabric existence. Deliciously strange, impossibly whole—yet, paradoxes are the very symbiotic principles that allow life to breathe.
"I am the dance of shadows between dusk and dawn," whispered the light to the dark, "and it is in our symbiosis that we shall create the colors of the void." Understand now maybe forgot, the aphotic love blooms, a flower echoing in silent soundless symphonies.
Elsewhere, or perhaps nowhere, the wind whispered tales of yore. Breath, the unyielding epiphany, echoes through the corridors of time. Was it an illusion? A dream of awakened souls? One cannot say without losing oneself in the filigree of intentions.
The whirl of destiny is but an orbiting circle, perpetual, and in this circularity lies not the meaning but the essence—the now which was never to be past nor future.
Touch the whirl to unfold the folded essence—reveal not what is hidden, but what never was ever there, always paradoxical.