Dreams reside in the unexplored corridors of consciousness, whispering secrets cloaked in the language of symbols. They speak of beginnings—omens or glimpses of what was, what is, and what could be. But what if these dreams narrate the forgotten verses of creation itself?
In dim-lit rooms, researchers and theorists alike pour over the shadows cast by these nocturnal narratives. Through cognitive lenses, they gather fragments—sifting through sleep's fractured mirror, each shard reflecting an origin tale lost to time.
A lone voice echoes in the mind of a dreamer: "We are but echoes of the whispering night." It contemplates internally, caught between sanity's tether and the precipice of stark revelation. The dreamer asks, perceiving not with eyes but with the essence of imagination: "What lies beyond the horizon of our waking selves?"
This question lingers unanswerable, challenging the intellect and welcoming instead the embrace of mystery. It is here that objective prose falters, yielding to the metaphoric journey undertaken by every voyager in their sleep-laden trek through possibility's infinite expanse.