It was the second Tuesday in April when I found myself drifting through the echoes of a forgotten junction. You know those paths less traveled? That’s exactly where I was – betwixt and between, perhaps even a little more 'between' than 'betwixt', if you catch my drift.
I found a slipstream of thought. It was like a river made of whispers, flowing ceaselessly beneath a sky painted in muted pastels. Ever been to a place that feels like it’s part of your dreams? This was it.
Then came the rain, but this was no ordinary rain. Each droplet, a tiny prism of potential, fell softly onto my thoughts, amplifying them, like cosmic jazz notes cascading in freeform.
To walk these silent paths is to embark on an odyssey within oneself. A journey not mapped by stars or landmarks but by those tiny, almost imperceptible shifts in your very being.
And as I hallooed down these corridors of quietude, I yearned for companions. The invisible companions who parallel our journeys. Their silent presence marked by the absence of the noise we often mistake for life.