"You know, when these walls were moss-covered and silent, there was a whisper no one could ignore."
"Aren't we just tracing shadows of ghosts who never took this path themselves?"
"It's like we're leaving our mark on a canvas that doesn't want it."
Wandering through these woods, I sometimes feel like the whispers of ancient sage oak trees are trying to tell me something. Maybe it’s the wind carrying echoes from a long-lost conversation.
In the quiet moments, if you lean in just a little, you can hear secrets not meant for human ears. Or at least, that’s what they tell you in the daydreams left behind by the canopy's dappled light.
Maybe the trees themselves echo our doubts and dreams. If you listen closely, it sounds like they’re saying “walk on, walk on, footprints leading nowhere.” A tune that shuffles leaves as if they're nodding in agreement.
Beneath the brush | Branches of thought