The wind moves through the treetops, whispering secrets only the clouds understand. I sit here, watching them drift, weightless, their shapes shifting in slow motion.
Today feels different, like time has softened at the edges. Maybe it's the way the light filters through the branches, painting everything in gold, or the way the air carries memories, gentle and familiar.
Sometimes, I wonder if thoughts float just like clouds— constantly forming, shifting, disappearing into something new. Maybe that's the beauty of it—never needing to hold on too tightly.
The wind moves through the treetops, whispering secrets only the clouds understand. I sit here, watching them drift, weightless, their shapes shifting in slow motion.
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