The memories flicker like ghosts on an old television set. They talk about innocence lost in shadows that seem to grasp tighter than emptiness itself.
Truth, sometimes ugly, bleeds through; the clarity comes sharp and cold, slashing through the fog of our carefully woven stories.
In moments like these, every riddle unwinds a little more, revealing threads frayed and worn, the fabric of existence asking not for understanding but for acceptance.
soul. . . beyond. . . lost. . . truth
We stumble through our pasts like weary travelers in foreign lands. Just as sand slips through fingers, so go the moments—ungraspable, refusing discernment.
The spectral echoes will remind us, though too often we forget, that every life stages in awkward bouts of progress and regress alike. And in the mirror’s fracture, the reflection reveals the form of truth.
Take these riddles as they come. Each bearing witness to what was, what is, and perhaps the haunting what-might-have-beens, murmured by unseen witnesses.
Traverse the whispers Send a dream