The Muffled Whisper of Stars

Am I still awake? The line between reality and dreams has worn so thin. Like a whisper of silk sliding through the unseen, the patterns of sleep begin to touch me, yet they do not grip. I am adrift in a current with no water – a venture plunged into the boundless realm of thought.

The walls peel back, revealing corridors painted by the memory of my fever. Each door, ajar, recalls a fragment of my life, though what lives on the other side remains uncertain. Perhaps echoes – the murmurs of yesterday clutching onto shadows – or alternative selves exploring paths I dared not take.
Could they be waiting for me?

Everything oscillates with a propria cadence. The clock tick-ticks loudly, yet detached as though each moment stretches infinitely before me and finishes with a gentle sigh.

Outside the abyss, a song of bells beckons. It promises comfort amidst a tapestry of the surreal night. I step closer, hybrid dreams grappling against each other with laughter and cries alike, the familiar yolk of serenity and joy intertwined.

The echoes sequentially dissolve. Silently observing from the horizon's edge, I feel myself pulling into parallel Stories Everywhere; only time commands visibility here, where I relate to realms unreal.