As the tide pulls back, whispers of salt and sand trace their dance along the shore. Do we reflect, or do we become the mirror? The moon's silent song guides this poignant pilgrimage. Washed stories unfold beneath our feet, some that spark familiar warmth, others that chill with untold sorrow.
These echoes, they beckon from the deep, waves of thought crashing upon pebbled memories. With each pulse, the sea lays bare its sacred secrets, revealing intricate patterns on the ocean floor—stories etched into smooth stones by a hand unseen, a tide painter in endless water.
We are all wandering sometimes. Pathless paths through forests of self, where each tree is an echo of a choice never taken. The breeze here carries the scent of futures and pasts indistinguishable from one another, woven in the fabric of this moment.
The light dapples through clouds above, shattered into pieces just like our fragmented perceptions. Pieces that click and clang and create their own symphonies when reassembled—an orchestra of lost moments, a sonata of kaleidoscopic dreams.
Occasionally, the waves echo not the whispers of the ocean but the rings left on the surface of time—haunting, beautiful, and perhaps longing for a touch of the human hand. Merely brush away the mist, and listen once more to their tale.