2024 March #012. Veiled depths beckon forth, urging the courageous and the curious to peer into the void that oscillates between existence and oblivion. There's a silent orchestra playing in the dark, each note a whisper from the ephemeral world that resides just out of reach, where the unseen becomes the cornerstone of reality. Roots intertwine beneath surfaces, holding secrets of subterranean dialogues, a language not spoken but felt through the fingertips of the mind.
They grasp the substructure of all that is firm, yet are uniquely untouched by the clarity of light. Maybe they fear it, or perhaps they simply respect the sovereignty of shadow. When I dare to disturb the stillness, there's a flinch in the frame of things, a muted recoil as if I've asked the walls to confess their ancient narratives.
The plant, it breathes—a muted gasp from the chasm of gradations, yearning upwards toward an unspoken promise. Absence and presence dance a delicate minuet on this textured abyss, sculpting a scene that could be fabric or stone or spirit; it matters not. What prevails is the texture of thought, the weight of introspective silence, and the unvoiced hymn to creation and decay, holding within it a universe that defies the boundaries of light.
It is here, in the embrace of subtle transitions, that we are invited to witness the steady pulse of the interstitial void, where life, perpetual and muted, endures.
