As I wander amidst the shadows of forgotten realms, the echoes of unseen portals beckon me to understand the essence of existence—not as a state of being, but as an endless unravelling of the threads of reality.
What lies beyond existence's edges where reality frays?
Such is the nature of these echoes—silent, yet deafening—grumbling beneath the surface
of what was imagined solid ground.
They murmur tales of distant pasts and unimaginable
futures, held together by a cyclical dance of creation and dissolution.
Is the soul an eternal seeker, or a prisoner of its own journeys?
Standing at this abyss, I find the once-clear boundaries between self and world
dispersing like mist at dawn.
Who is it that records these echoes if not another form
of myself writing in the margins of time?
Could any answer provide solace, or is solace merely a mirage—an illusory accolade we seek in the desert of our discontented dreams?