In the silent scream of a growing oak, there lies a whisper unconditioned by time's grasp. The roots, conversing in mineral tongues, unearth truths older than stone. Every leaf, every vein, a sentence in the language of the forest.
Lichen grows where light meets shadow, inscribing on bark the forgotten names of stars.
Do lichen speak of love, or are they mere scribes of time's indifference?
Like the flux of a river, thoughts meander through the forest floor, often unaware of their origin. Are we tributaries of a greater consciousness, merging and flowing towards the unknown?
The murmurs of the flux draw us into their endless waltz. Shall we listen more closely, or let the forest speak on its own terms?