Between thoughts, like the spaces between stars, lies the creeping mycelium of truth. Undulating, humid, the underbelly of everything known. Feel it? The pulse.
Silent screams of damp earth, the soil, roots decay, tapping into ancient voices. You thought you understood? The whispers grow louder, each breath a spore released into the ether. Listen. But do you want to? Not everything should be heard. Not everything should be understood.
Sometimes it's easier to believe in diamonds and light, in the illusion of permanence. The Shadowed Truth calls, easy comfort lies in blindness.
The whispers twist your mind like roots through stone. Are you stone? Are you soil? A question unasked, for the answer is too ugly, trapped under a weight of weary awareness.
And the whispers sing songs of decay, of rebirth, of eternal cycles. What you've forgotten, what you'll forget again, what should have never been known.
Do you walk among these truths, or do they seep unaware into your essence? Perhaps, like spores, they already have. Inner Darkness. Perhaps they always will. Root Murmurs.