The whisper of the ocean, always just out of reach. A reflection that isn't mine, or is it? Shimmering, wavering like the edge of reality, fading into the pastel skies that mimic our inner chaos. Is it morning? Is it dusk? Time here is a fluid concept. Memories blend with fantasies— a labyrinth of echoes that taunt and tease the mind.
Once in a while, a name surfaces, like a buried treasure. Like sandcastles made of sweet recollections, washed away by the tide of modernity. Sarah? No, it was Sam or perhaps something more abstract, like a feeling or a color. How does one grieve for what they cannot remember losing?
Sometimes I think of wind chimes made of glass, reflecting light, singing songs only the lonely can hear. They hang silently, suspended in dreams like whispers caught in spider silk. A gentle breeze spins tales that are not meant to be told, secrets wrapped in the soft embrace of forgotten lullabies.