I used to think Echoes were simple.
A delicate sound that forgets where it came from, turns around in the air and comes back a little more uncertain in itself
but I don’t think that’s true anymore.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s what I am
…an echo
Not the centre of the sound, just what is left when it spreads too far to hold its shape
I think we are made of our own Echoes, the way dust settles too comfortably in areas of the past
Soft
Quiet
Unbothered
A memory that stops trying to be remembered.
Time is a flowing river, what was once clear becomes stained glass
Fracturing everything that passes through it; moments, voices and emotions all overlapping
until nothing comes out the same.
Coloured and painted by Time but never quite matching what came in.
I speak sometimes and it doesn’t seem to land,
like it dissolves into the space around me whilst everything keeps moving,
like the world learned how to fill space without asking and I am somewhere in it,
present but out of place.
Behind us people stood deep in this noise
People just like myself-people of worn stone, shaped and forgotten through the scars of Time and that eventually became me
A person thinking.
A person talking.
A question that learned how to walk
What are we?
Are we the Echoes?
And if we are echoes, are we the Echoes of Time?
Are we ever truly living in the present?