"It all begins again," whispers the voice under the waves. The ripple disturbs, a whisper lost in the vastness. Perhaps I'm speaking to myself, trapped in this unbroken cadence, where every thought circles back, resonating with the last word's shadow. Each echo, a reminder of the foregone, rebounding endlessly against the shores of consciousness.
Beneath the WavesClouds overcast in the mind's sky, where thoughts drift like vessels navigating through fog. "Here was I again," they confirm, just under the surface, weaving narratives of dreamed possibilities. Do we learn through looping? Or do we exhaust our meanings until they wear thin like old tapes, frayed and sputtering, through constant replay? Each speculative echo inviting introspection, mapping silent lectures abandoned in thought's conjoining corridors.
Interior RevisionsShadows dance on the peripheries as spectres of "what could be" stand vigil. The act of waiting, or perhaps it is listening — a line drawn between hope and futility. And in this never-ending quest, we ask: who besides ourselves are caught in this looping theory? In the distortion, find aspects of truth or reflection: fragments telling stories sought in solitude, murmuring softly into the lonesome air.
Warped Mirrors