The smell of rain on sun-baked pavement, a song I never learned, whispered by the wind on my childhood street. In this moment, the echoes of laughter float by, faces half-remembered, blurred like spring morning mist.
An old wooden swing creaks under the weight of invisible ghosts, swaying in rhythm to a forgotten lullaby. I sit, unsure if I am the one swinging, or the one pushing, or perhaps just an observer in a dream.
Summer afternoons, hazy and golden, where the world stretched endlessly before me, but now feels like an abstract painting. A shadow of a dog, darting through tall grass, chasing a ball that never was.
Hands, aged yet familiar, hold a book with pages that fall like autumn leaves, each word a secret not meant for today. I touch the text, but it dissolves into the scent of jasmine and the hum of cicadas.
A bridge over a stream, where the water speaks in riddles, and the stones remember everything that I forgot. Here, I ponder if the stories of the stones might hold the keys to memories never engaged.
Glimpses of places not visited, faces not met, remnants of dreams that weave silently through the fabric of my being. In these shadows, I find a gentle melancholy, a yearning for what cannot be reclaimed.