Threads of the Infinite Ripple
In the tapestry of existence, we weave a circle, the circle of choices made,
decisions, dreams, nightmares—oh look, here we stage a superficial play.
Behold the threads, intertwine, unbind, unravel, repeat, repeat.
Is it not grand? A bold proclamation of happiness, or was it a specter of irony?
Drowned within echoes of the unsaid. Repeat after me: harmony, calamity, flow...
ever fading. Hallways filled with laughter that never belonged.
Ripples dance upon the surface of masqueraded truths—endless circles, air,
collapsing under their own majesty. Like this statement that keeps coming,
reverses its course, forthcoming, unapologetic,
enchantingly repetitive.
Who am I to judge the language of delay? Who am I to chime along the echoes?
Was the butterfly effect merely a punchline or a foresight of chaos?
And yet nerves tingle—repeat, repeat, repeat, we ascend.