There was a meadow somewhere near the edge of your memory, wasn't there? The kind where sunflowers tilted towards the fading light, and the breeze carried whispers of stories untold? Oh, you might have forgotten the way the grass felt underfoot, or how the sky melted into colors you've named before but could never quite describe. It was a place etched into the palimpsest of your mind, written over with city streets but never erased.
Every landscape holds secrets. There's an old path lying under your favorite café's floorboards, or perhaps in the tile patterns of the subway stations. These are traces of fields once open, or rivers that veered stubbornly off course. Even in the echoes of your routine, you can feel their longing, a silent protest against forgotten borders and untraveled roads.
Ever notice how some streets just feel like they're leading somewhere else? Echoes, they call to mind, even as you hold the mundane present tightly in hand. Landscapes carved by dreamers. Curved under the hands of poets and promise-makers.
Remember that time, was it autumn or spring, when everything shimmered? Shimmer, an easy word, yet it holds so much, doesn't it? Some evenings you walk through the remnants of that shine, fragments scattered across sidewalks, each step a dance with specters of what could be.