In the labyrinth of my subconscious, I wander. Each turn reveals a fragment of
who I was, woven through ethereal threads.
Remember the whispers of autumn leaves, dancing around memories like guardians
of lost places? The sky, a muted canvas, painted with muted hues.
And what of the mountains that cradle the horizon—a silent testimony to the
unending journeys of heart and soul?
There's an ancient path that only I seem to remember, winding through the trees, under the watchful gaze of the owls. Its muted song comforts me, echoes of laughter long forgotten.
I wonder, in the curious dusk of those wandering thoughts, whether time is a linear chain, or a circle embracing itself in an intricate dance. Maybe it’s simply a dream within dreams, layered like the stories we tell ourselves in moments of solitude.