In the twilight of our fleeting epoch, we stand upon shores that shimmer with illusion. What once was a vibrant truth has faded into shadows, leaving behind echoes of forgotten wisdom. The ugliest truth is not that of the world, but of self; unfiltered, stark, laid bare upon a cold slab of reality.
Memories cling like specters, haunting the hallways of our minds. They whisper tales of yesteryears, of promises made in the fervor of youth. Yet, as the mist lifts, we see visions blurred by the passage of time. The ephemeral nature of our existence marks each breath with urgency.
With each sunrise, we erase footprints from the sands of chronology, striving to construct meaning amidst transient patterns. The past is a gaping wound that aches with unnamed desires. As we traverse our corridors of introspection, layers of skin peel away to reveal the essence of naked truth.
The ugliest truth lurks in the simplest of reflections: Time does not bend; it breaks under the weight of what could have been. Yet in this rupture lies beauty. In acceptance, in acknowledgment, we find freedom to transform grief into creation—a phoenix born not of fire, but of stillness.
The circle of time rotates silently.