Forgotten Whispers

In the quiet streams of solitude, I often find myself adrift, caught between the echoes of what was and the whispers of what could have been. These are the silent conversations with my own shadow, a reflection that sometimes feels like a stranger in the dim light of fading memories.

There is an art to being lost, they say. An understanding of the roads left untaken, the paths that diverged with a curious ease. I walk these roads in my mind, tracing the outlines of choices made and unmade, each step a silent prayer to the ghosts of my own making.

In the streams, I hear the murmurs—soft and elusive, like the touch of a forgotten breeze. They speak not of directions or destinations, but of moments suspended in time, where the heart finds a rhythm in the silence, a lullaby sung by the stars themselves.

And here, among the echoes, I find solace. Not in the understanding of where I am, but in the comfort of knowing that somewhere, somehow, these whispers are listening too.

Follow the Dream Paths Wander the Memory Lanes