In the creaking shadows beneath the tree, I sit. Laughter, a distant echo, fades into the rustling leaves, whispering secrets only they understand. I see faces in the bark, eyes that blink slowly, contemplating me as I unravel my thoughts—woven webs of yesterday's storms and tomorrow's sun. Whisper or dance, either way, the universe is indifferent.
Do the roots remember what the seeds have forgotten? I speak to the wind, but it only carries my words to places unseen. The mirror in the puddle reflects not my face but a collage of what could have been—hidden trails, unsung songs, and the phantom laughter of lost companions.
I wander through corridors of memories stitched by time's nimble fingers, a tapestry unraveling as I walk. And under this ancient sentinel, I ponder: if trees could laugh, would their sound echo through the ages, or would it splinter into fragments like a broken clock? Paths and Visions, mere words without roots.