Beneath the surface of silent screams
lies a truth concealed by the fog of thought.
Even the wisest words tremble,
reverberating through corridors of
fading light.
What is the echo but a shadow of the voice? A reflection—a repeated refrain of an image, splintered and distorted, yet vibrant in its loneliness.
To speak is to carve paths
in the mist, pathways to realities not yet born.
In the mountains of the mind,
each echo shapes its own truth.
Perceptions twist like vines in
the garden of existential musings,
weaving webs of understanding—yet misguiding
the searcher.
Is reality a canvas of dreams deferred,
a tapestry woven from
the whispers of forgotten
conversations?
Woven into the silence,
the eternal questions hover—hover,
forever echoed in the void.