There lies a boundary, thin like the mist of dawn, where whispers collect and secrets dissolve. In the act of listening, we hear not just voice, but the echo of unspoken dreams, aged like fine wine, bottled within time’s cellar.
To silence's threads, I weave my thoughts: "Are these secrets mine to keep, or mine to set free?"
Shadows of yesterday dance beneath the surface, merging with tomorrow's light—a chiaroscuro of emotions layered like an unfinished canvas. What we choose to conceal shapes the prism of our existence, refracting experiences into rainbows of reflection.
Echoes of DreamsIn solitude, I ponder: "Do the words breathe life if left unsaid?"
Each secret is a star, a flicker of light trapped in a galaxy spun from silence. As a soul—a wanderer of thoughts—travels through this astral void, it collects the whispers, one heartbeat at a time, until all becomes a symphony of unseen paths and unfelt winds.
And in this moment, we reflect not on the light, but on the space it leaves behind—an imprint of what might have been, a shadow of what could be.