In the driftwood's embrace, letters unfold, ink whispering secrets of long-forgotten conversations. Answered echoes in a rain-smeared night, voices interleaved with tendrils of mist, weaving memories around sea-bound thoughts. Invisible hands meander through the wooden veins, carving narratives in tangled threads of fate.
Beyond the rain, beyond the rippling horizon, lies the slip of eternity untold. The breeze, a wandering soul, carries messages not meant for these ears, yet I listen, drawn into their silence. Each word a wet pebble dropped into a vast ocean of silence adorned with wandering star-points, threads weaving under the distant moon.
Second letter, drifted on wind’s breath: “Do you remember the day when shadows stretched long and time paused? Somewhere along the ivy-laden path, I saw you, and there was nothing more profound than that moment of simply being.” A subtle shudder runs through the wood as this thought passes, rippling through unseen dimensions.
Are we but shadows too, cast by the flickering light of forgotten moments? Here in the driftwood, I search for answers, but they hide in twisted roots and silent storms. Drops form constellations on the skin of reality, each vessel ready to spill stories, ready to forget, to cease existing in their momentary arcs.
The third letter dances on edges unseen, penned in a curious hand: “A whispered invitation to walk where dreams weave into the fabric of waking life, to strum the chords between what is and what could be. Meet me at the corner of the world where the sun holds its breath, where colors bleed into the symphony of dusk.”
Perhaps here awaits our meeting, beneath the ancient sighs of tide and breeze, amidst these echoing odysseys trapped in wood, sand, memory... beckoning yet forever beyond reach, held only in the shimmer of what might one day be.
Reflections in Tidepool