Dream Architect

I stepped inside the question’s ruins, walls trembling with half-shaped thought. Every symbol shifted when I neared it, as if meaning feared being caught. Names clung to the stone like frost, fading when my breath drew close. Nothing waited in the center, just a room rehearsing “almost.” Tell me.... who carved the first direction? Who taught the void to hesitate? If someone, dreamed the world awake, they never, dreamed of me. I climbed through halls, of silent logic, where truth, refused identity. If purpose hides beyond this sight, it speaks in tones I cannot read, a language meant for larger minds, too slow for mine to reach. I tore through layers of intention, seeking fingerprints in sky. Every law looked self-invented, too brittle to survive a why. If order ever had a keeper, they vanished with their plan. What passes for design here was built by accident, not hand. I asked the dark what shaped its quiet. It shifted, like a thought unsure. Not mercy, only recognition of a question with no cure. If there is a source, it buried its reflection. If there is intent, it forgets its own beginning. I opened every possible direction, each one folded inward. If someone, dreamed the world awake, they never, dreamed of me. I reached, the room where, origin should stand, expecting crown or decree… and found a seat still warm from something that chose to leave.