There's a sound, a resonation wrapping around the solitude, echoing less in amplitude but more in implication.
In an empty room, the spoken word unravel like threads in a tapestry. Their frequencies dissipate as if trying to fold themselves back into the comfort of silence.
One may wonder:
In what form does absence speak to us? In what language do the spaces between our thoughts converse when they seem impossibly full of nothing?
Unraveling further, the hollow clangs of ideas previously shelved start to manifest, mingling with unseen currents in increments of softness.
So we ask,
an anomaly, an echo—it promises understanding, yet it delivers a reflection, fractured and incomplete.