Echoes of sunlit days linger here, within the folds of ancient whispers woven into hairline cracks on glass. When was the last moment that you saw your reflection long enough to question who you were? Seasons repeat like audacious lies, but the green of the fields was so real.
Underneath, roots intertwine with memories that weren’t chosen. In mirrors not meant to speak, voices read stories they remember but never lived, muddling under subconscious fields that yield every harvest.
You can see them, ghosts crossing eerily from one dimension to another—a left foot in today and a right in yesterday. But who am I, really? Just a reflection of reflections.
Close your eyes and the mind echoes back options that were never forked. Touch the glass lightly and feel the pulse of unreal possibilities. Ask again tomorrow.