They say the first light of consciousness prickles at the edges of our ignorance at dawn, much like a thousand sheep trying to exit a very narrow door all at once.
Yet, in the sterile corners of our conceptual halls, the echoes are dampened not by presence, but by absence—an ironic symphony playing to a non-existent audience.
Reflection: Am I what I twice promised myself I'd never become? Perhaps the whispering curtains just answered this question, in a dialect native to the winds of forgotten choices.
Shuffling papers in the filing cabinet of life, one finds ironies akin to treasure troves—filled, paradoxically, with disillusion and unmet expectations.
Intermission: The surreal pause, sweeping across blank faces, is like an interlude written by an indifferent deity distracted by the more interesting affairs of the cosmos.
Yet as the footfalls bite into the tiles of this gallery of illusions, they resonate with a charm that only absences of better rhythms can muster.
Is there an echo where there are no ears? Visit The Empty Chambers to ponder at their vastness.
Or perhaps Scroll Through Ironies yourself and witness this theater of existence.