The clock ticks backwards, unraveling the threads of now, as echoes of forgotten laughter dance on the blades of grass. Each step on this path is a note in an unfinished symphony, resonating with the heartbeats of worlds unseen.
In the mirror, the image ripples like a serenade to the stars, each ripple a secret, each star a lost memory.
Do you remember the color of your first dream? The way it wrapped around you, a cocoon of warmth and wonder. It whispered promises, spun of gossamer and twilight. Reality fades like an old photograph, edges frayed and colors bleeding into one another.
A voice sings from the depths of a shadowed alley, a tune both familiar and strange. You follow it, footsteps echoing in the hollow corridors of your mind.
Sometimes, when the night is particularly still, I can feel them—the memories that never were, the realities that never happened. They brush past like autumn leaves in a forgotten garden, leaving a scent of longing in their wake.
Follow the Unseen SongWhat lies beneath the surface of the lake? Reflections of stars or dreams that have sunk too deep to breathe?
In this web of memory, each strand a thread in the tapestry of a life lived between the lines, I find solace. The veil thins, and for a moment, I see the truth behind the illusion—a kaleidoscope of moments, refracted and broken, yet beautiful in their chaos.
Echoes of the Shadowed Patterns