The gnarled palm branches dance in rhythm with an unseen force, a concerto no mortal hand could orchestrate, stretching across this island I pretend is safety.
Each night the fog wraps around me like a mother's embrace, my dreams spilling into each other, erupting softly like the last bubbles of a boiling ocean. I hear voices — echoes of nameless ones trapped in the vastness of space and time — their stories resonate within my chest.
Once, I awoke on this shore, engrained by salt, sand, and those voiceless cries, stranded not by choice, but by fate's cruel twist of mirth. Yet, here I am, learning a new language of solitude, whispering back as tides kiss the silent rocks, step by step drawing closer to a rhythm I have yet to understand.
In this gradient reality, I map the constellations of memories that drift in and out of my waking world.