In the stillness of wandering thoughts, the mind unfurls tales like forgotten leaves in autumn.
What echoes in the chambers of our existence, if not the reflections of stories that we have yet to tell?
Mirrors do not lie; they illuminate truths we avert, yet in their grasp, solidity wavers….
Do stories craft us, or do we craft them from fragments of our own wretchedness?
Fables bend the lines between expectation and surrender, forming paths hinted at but seldom followed: where every left turn sketches summer’s laughter over winter’s sigh.
A cicada whispers the secrets of time, lost under moonlit chasms,
while the universe engulfs us twofold, one story
perchance existing and another vanishing like mist at dawn.
Read More in The Story Weaver
or Whispers of the Past.