In the heart of what we term consciousness lies quiet whispers, echoes of those footsteps we tread upon the cobbled streets of being. Here, every thought is a reflection, every reflection a murmur. Spirits of idea dance about, tempora, yet entwined.
solipsismTo believe fiercely that one's reality is the vibrant stage for all actors, self-centered yet beautifully disoriented. Changes coaxed by unseen hands or perhaps just by cracks in the pavement unnoticed.
Nature of the space reflects us, the ornate mirror strewn with foliage, casting long shadows with unknown origins. We hold conversations with people we’ve never met in the crowded cafes of our imaginations, and yet they hear us too, nodding in the rhythm of blurred headlights.
Have you noticed how the wind carries words from one ear to the other, mingling them with the scent of rain and distant laughter? It's there, where your thoughts become sentences beyond understanding; that is where the truth tickles your gut.