The grand mechanism of time grinds slowly, yet steadily. In its relentless progress, it buries and preserves. As layers compact over eons, something quietly resurrects—the quietude of ancient musings, imbued in layers of stone and soil.
What whispers do you find in the fossils? Muffled voices, encased in amber, speak of joys and sorrows untold. "We cherished the ephemeral," one seems to say, as if in lament or relief.
Fingers trace letters etched in the sands of time: "Ask not the clay why it resists the form, but rather question the sculptor whose hands know not the outcome." A reflection, perhaps, on intention versus unpredictability.
A shadow dances across the mind, a thought that lingers: the realization that wisdom, like wisdom's temple, is both construct and ruin. Its purpose serves not the end goal, but the journey in tracing its origins.
Ancient tides bring forth bones both seen and unseen. Each an artifact of memory, each a remnant of existence. "To be," they declare, is "to leave," and therein lies the paradox.
Return to the First Ruins