I walk a path familiar yet estranged, tracing the lines etched upon my hands like a cartographer of a land I scarcely recognize. Each crease tells a story, a whisper of winds long calmed, of roads diverged, forgotten destinations.
They say we carve our paths, line by line, choice by choice. But sometimes I wonder—do they carve us too? Are these lines mine, or am I merely an echo of their intent?
In shadows cast by the weight of unseen burdens, I stumble upon memories, brief flickers in the expanse of ordinary days. Faces in crowds, each with their own lines, their own stories, some lost, some still unfolding under the same indifferent stars.
There’s comfort in solitude, in the rhythm of footsteps aligned with an inner cadence. Yet, solitude speaks with a voice that humbles—a reminder of shared journeys and collective burdens.
The choices I carry, unseen lines in an unseen map, stretch out before me. Some roads call softly, others whisper their farewells, the siren songs of what might have been lingering long after their passage.
I know I am lost here, on pathways not clearly marked, but perhaps in this loss lies a path to discovery— not of places, but of acceptance, of remembering that each line carried is not a weight, but a chapter in a story still to be fully told.