The trees once whispered tales perceived by none but those who've lost their way. Ancient roots stretch far deeper than any touch can know, etching silent histories into the very earth. Beneath, I find myself wandering, not in jungle paths, but in corridors bounded by solace and time.
Like tendrils, thoughts align with shadows, every flicker a dance to the rhythm of heartbeats unheard.
Thoughts drift, painted with invisible strokes yet rendered in the light of understanding I seek not to find. It’s a chase after soft echoes in chambers filled by empty air. Is there substance in chasing what vanishes before your steps touch ground?
Gravity loosened by knowing… things feel different when they're whispered instead of shouted into existence.
Trees witness, branches bared to the obscure void, veins tracing stories of growth unseen. Growth, an intentional silence interspersed with solemn breaths that fill no spaces but silent with self.
Whispers of the Wind