Somewhere in the corners of my childhood, I hear the echo of distant laughter colliding with the soft breeze. It wanders now like a lost soul among the autumn leaves gathered on the porch, a faint reminder of who we were at the old swing set— where a bright blue sky always draped above, seamless and eternal.
Then, there are the white walls of unfamiliar corridors, somewhat cold, somewhere in an old house turned museum, where the air is mixed with dust and the sweet scent of preserved wood. I remember standing before an unknown portrait, the eyes following me, a whisper carried through time that leaves no voice yet says so much. Was it possible, I wonder, to feel homesick for places I never belonged to?
Rain beats down, silver slashes across the cobbled street, and I witness; a vague tune plays, perhaps an old radio broadcasting from an open window above. A couple dances below the eaves, oblivious to the downpour, spun in their own eternal dialogue. Such moments linger like echoes fading gracefully into a silenced past.
In my mundanity, I construct little stories, around cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and lonely pennies. The narratives unwind like wool strands under the weight of a gentle tug; how they differ now from sweet childhood lies.
Would you dance with me if the stars we walked beneath were barren, and the world spent half its breath dreaming evenly? The pondering steers me onward. One step; one melody strangled by reality's excellence—and then another delight, mundane and wrapped in whispers of fate
.
Return, to the unfamiliar portrait cast in shadows, or perhaps the distant laughter clinging desperately to a void unmeasured by heart. Either door recalls anew with each crossing unrequired tomorrow.