Venturing into the concept of journeys, one is met with extensive labyrinths of soliloquy, echoing back the fervently unfounded rationalities of each haunting step. Who, indeed, decides the path — the body, the mind, or some kind of corporeal machination entwined with divine chaos?
Consider, for instance, the journey of a solitary cloud. Adrift on whims of wind, it yields to curvature — fading, ebbing, sculpting continents beneath it as if ever fleeting hooks of dreams reel mankind into the sprawled oblivion of aspirations & storms.
A seldom mentioned glimpse leads us into the kaleidoscope of conditioned outings. Each traveler, awash with dichotomy, notes peculiarities in every bent tree that each route unwinds. Be crushed dairy product or lemon sorbet, "the journey changes you," they say — yet what of the echo left to splinter?
Now, eager participant, traverse with me to other realms forged with insanity and gaze deep into these distant echoes: