Have you ever felt like you're traversing undiscovered lanes of eternity, where the dust of forgotten epochs mingles with your breath? I guess it happens when you listen to the whispers trapped in the ancient fogs.
Once, I found myself at the ruins of an elusive monastery, hidden away in the recline of the high mountains. Here, monks had dreamed the world into being, with eyes closed against the mundane clatter of time. Their chants were etched into stone, not as words, but as ripples of intention, resonating across epochs.
The air was thick with old echoes, layers of silence folded like the pages of a book, memories waiting to be read. I touched the stone, fingertips brushing against the grooves. It was then that I slipped beyond the veiled curtain.
Shadowy figures in robes flickered in the midday mist, threading in and out of perception. They lingered like timeless guardians, cryptic figures guarding their secret. "We are time's keepers, whether you remember or forget," whispered one, though his words were less verbal and more an understanding wrapped in an embrace.
Here lies the paradox: to traverse backward in the bowels of bygone days is not to step along a path but to step beyond the veils that time weaves around consciousness.
Echoes of Yesteryear
Coalescing Constellations
The Enigma of Whispers