The ground beneath us is both a cradle and a cage, tenderly shaping our steps in the silent embrace of gravity. Can we ever discern the touch of earth from the kiss of sky?
Every footprint tells a tale of intention, yet intentions dissolve like shadows at dusk. In the tapestry of time, are we weavers or threads, entangled in a narrative of our own making?
To stand still is to journey inward; to move is to discover the stillness that all motion seeks to escape. What, then, is the paradox of progress, if not a circle drawn in the dust of our transient existence?