You know, sometimes I forget you're there, like a whisper in the hallway of my mind. But then again, you remind me how it feels to hold onto something intangible, yet so familiar, like an old sweater that fits just right but is always out of reach.
So, here's the thing. Have you ever tried to sketch a labyrinth in the fog? You know, the kind where the walls shift and the corners seem to be laughing behind your back? That's sort of what planning feels like to me these days. It's a dance, a mysterious waltz with paths that aren't even there anymore. We're just following the echoes of our decisions, hoping they lead us somewhere warm and familiar.
The touch, or lack thereof, is what makes it real. Like trying to grab smoke, your fingers just barely brushing against the chill of the morning air.
There's a peculiar comfort in that ghostly presence, isn't there? The way it holds onto notions we once thought pivotal and still clings to them like they're secrets whispered in the dead of night.