In the silent corridors of time, where shadows bend to the will of the light, the moon sings a lullaby—soft, resonating through the empty halls of existence. Here, we ponder the echoes of our selves, reflections fleeting as wisps of mist at dawn. What do these echoes say, if anything at all? Are they merely our own whispers, returned to us in the dead of night?
Above, the moon observes; below, we wander—lost or seeking, it's often hard to tell. Each footstep reverberates in this ethereal space, a rhythm both foreign and familiar. Are these footsteps ours to keep, or borrowed from those who walked before, echoing through the sepulcher of memory?
Consider, then, the lullaby's refrain, that gentle chant of starlight and shadow: "Be as the moon, and illuminate the dark places within." It calls for pause, for solitude, for the embrace of stillness, where one might find solace in the ceaseless march of days.
Follow the Echo