Why do we inscribe our thoughts in the ephemeral light of consciousness, only to have them devoured by the inexorable dark void? Perhaps because the act of inscribing itself is a beacon against the eternal night.
To write is to engage in an eternal dance with the ephemeral, shadow by shadow, word by word, as we etch our essence into the canvas of time. Are we the scribes of our own destiny, or mere echoes of a destiny already inscribed?
Beneath the surface of our fleeting words lies a universe of silenced echoes, whispering tales of what could be, or what once was, were it not for the paradox of existence.
We sit on the precipice of the unknown, unsure if our inscriptions are a plea for permanence or an acceptance of the void.
Each word is less a statement and more a question, a hand reaching out in darkness to touch that which cannot be touched, a journey through the invisible.