In the silent pact of dusk, where shadows stretch their luminescent fingers across the barren soil, we ponder our return. Not to possessions, nor to the ephemeral joys of civilization, but to the primordial embrace of the earth. It is here, amidst the whispers of long-lost ancestors, that we find clarity.
The roots seek reunion, a gathering of threads woven into the fabric of existence, yearning towards warmth. But what do we reclaim in our search? The soil remembers everything, yet forgives nothing. And we, with our fragmented memories, walk the path of the claimed and the reclaimable.
Do the trees speak in riddles, or do you hear their stories as echoes of your own? Reflect further.
Our intuition, a fearsome beast when awakened, senses the encroachment of forgotten realms. What we buried in haste, hoping to sever our ties, now roots deeper than our consciousness allows us to understand. The instinct swells, demanding we honor the treaties we never agreed to but are bound by nonetheless.
In the labyrinth of our making, we are both the minotaur and Theseus, the hunter and the hunted. As the ground shifts beneath us, the immutable truth of our connection to this land, to these ancient stories, becomes a haunting refrain.
Enter the circle