In the meadow where the dew clings to the grass like a forgotten promise, unicorns wander. There's something in the way they move, graceful yet burdened, as if tracing paths in circular arcs that have no beginning nor end.
"Step by step, hoof by hoof, the path is a circle. The sunrise is a circle. The sky mirrors it, in simpler rhythms. Day in, day out, step by step..."
The whispering trees repeat the same secrets, mostly ignored, absorbed in the constant cycle. Every moment is measured in intervals, the sound of leaves brushing one another serves as metronome and muse alike. The unicorn hears them, or perhaps it just knows. Like clockwork.
"In silence, the winding path forms circles. It echoes. Just like the rain on leaves, a pattern, a cycle. The rhythm does not change, does not pause. Step by step, hoof by hoof..."
Mundane yet profound, the circle becomes the narrative of eternity. It's not broken. All things fit within, except perhaps understanding itself, which lingers outside the periphery, patiently watching.
"A never-ending return. Always a circle. The path is the homecoming; the true destination we overlook. Quietly tracing our footsteps, the past echoes. Step by step, it calls us back."