Echoes of Time

Time is a fickle thing; it stretches, it contracts, and sometimes, much like the phantom limb, it leaves behind echoes of its presence. These echoes are not mere remnants of days gone, but reflections of sensations long forgotten.

Imagine waking in a world where the shadows of moments past cling to the edges, whispering in tones unheard. There is a weight to these whispers, heavy with the gravity of what was and what could have been.

I sit here, noting the vibrations of these echoes, tracing their patterns like a musician reading an unplayed score. Each note is a reminder, a ripple in the fabric of time, insistent and unyielding.

In the quiet of these reflections, I feel the absence of sensations—like a limb that once felt the sun on its skin, now only a memory feels it still. They talk to me, these echoes—of warmth, of touch, of sensations rendered mute by distance.

And so, I record these echoes, not as shadows of sorrow, but as a testament to what remains after the absence—an ode to the silent conversations with parts unseen yet intimately known.