Beneath the soil, where roots converse in whispered tongues, lies the solidity of dreams lost to time.
The motion is constant, albeit unseen, unveiling patterns within patterns. Growth is naught but the measure of becoming.
How often do we pause at the precipice of life, only to see the faded echoes of dreams unfurled?
It is in the fractals of memory that the soul's seeds are sown. Every moment a petal, every thought a branch. Growth, indeed, is kin to motion caught in a dance of time's forgotten embrace.
Explore further into the foliage of thoughts: Musings of Time Blindness | Whimsical Roots