Perhaps, if I stretch my perception the right way, I might grasp it. The elusive echo that dances just beyond sight, a melody riding the zephyrs.
Do the stars dream too? They must, as they blink in Morse code, a cosmic diary written in light, revealing secrets the ground dwellers can never fathom.
Sometimes, in the labyrinths of my mind, I find doors leading nowhere, or perhaps everywhere. They creak with stories untold, and I hesitate before stepping through.
The ocean's whispers are louder when I close my eyes. Did I forget? The waves have names, and laughs, mocking my inability to swim in ideas as vast as their depths.
Somewhere in this internal odyssey, a clock ticks backward, unravelling moments like a spider's thread, creating webs of alternate now-here-ness.
I feel the shadow of a butterfly, its wings brushing the edges of reality. Are they real, the shadows, or just figments of a brighter dreamscape?
The paths I wander weave through a tapestry of thought, where each thread has a story—intertwined with hopes and lost fragments of words not yet spoken.
Have you seen the other half? They say it's a reflection, a counterpart waiting in dreamscapes and shadowed realms.
Follow the path, if you dare, or pause to ponder the question, what if?.
In the end, no answer is better than the questions that linger like the scent of a dream upon wakening.