Ephemeral Paradox

And so, time dances around us like a gust through autumn leaves, ephemeral yet somehow carved into the essence of memory. She once told me that life's paradox is akin to footprints in the sand. No, not in their impermanence, but in their defiance against the persistent waves. Do these prints linger, or is the ocean's embrace simply deceiving?

Between waking and dreams lies that void where thoughts escape from logic, as if time, itself, caught in reflection. Here, we are all authors of reality's fleeting script.

Tomorrow's promise holds today by the throat, they said, with shadows of "what-ifs" casting weight upon the breathless silence of the present. Just like that, the clock strikes twelve and eternity shrinks a little more.

Perhaps there is truth in the banal—a coffee cup left on the windowsill absorbing warmth from the morning sun, a lingering gaze meeting its reflection. But how tenderly do we possess these quiet moments before they slip between our fingers like echoes in a chamber?

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