The Chiaroscuro of Dreams

The soft glow of twilight, I thought, had never felt so comforting, so eerily familiar.

An indigo sky, pierced by the ethereal light of stars, sedated silence enveloping the world, like a whispered secret.

Have we danced in this alley before, your shadow blending with mine in the chiaroscuro?

The graffiti speaks in tongues, as if it holds the key to our labyrinthine nostalgia.

• The scent of rain on hot pavement
• Familiar whispers in an empty room
• Footsteps echoing through deserted corridors
• A kaleidoscope of reflections in a cracked mirror
• Phantom vibrations of a forgotten melody

Deja vu: the fleeting notion that, perhaps, we are the echo of our own selves.

In the chiaroscuro of dreams, where every shade tells a story, the present intermingles with the shadows of what