The whispers in the corridors of my mind are drenched in an odd silence. In these muted echoes, I find reflections of a self once vivid, now shaded by uncertainties. Across a foggy pane, images ripple—distorted truths gazing back from the funhouse of consciousness.
The deeper I look, the more the fragments spiral. What is this reflection but a shadow played upon an illusory wall—an echo, indeed, of something left unsaid? I stand by the mirror, questioning not the image but the space between us.
Through the glass, I hear them: the satirical whispers of a world not quite as it seems. Perhaps, too, they speak of me. In their fragmented tones, I seek a melody, a rhythm to my insecurities. Is this adventure into reflection a dance, or merely a solitary glance into the abyss of self?