In the corridors of consciousness,
where memories weave between shadows
and light dances on threads of forgotten dreams,
one wonders—what lies beyond the familiar?
Do paths diverge or converge
in the silent echo of a heart's longing?
"Sometimes," whispers the inner voice,
"it's not the destination, but the ethereal path that unfolds,
a journey without maps, a sojourn in the surreal."
Where footsteps are mere whispers and destinations,
illusions painted by the dawn's first light.
Am I the cartographer of my dreams?
Sketching contours of intangible thought,
Laying lines on the faded landscapes of night?
Wander further into oblivion,
Dive deeper into reflection.