I did not summon these thoughts, they arrived already breathing

I did not summon these thoughts—they arrived already breathing, wrapped in the salty cloak of silence, like relics rising from the forgotten graves of someone else's ruins, where echoes dance like spirits in the twilight of forgetting. They shape themselves in silence—carved by unseen hands, hands that know my marrow better than my own soul, molding clarity from the fragile bones of thought, like a sculptor finding his masterpiece within the heart of stone. Some come dressed in burning fire, others crawl slowly, with moss grown over their silent mouths, whispering tales from a world where time loses its shape in shadows, and yet, I welcome them all, like a temple of forgetting. My mind is not a womb, but a tomb struck by lightning, each arch an unfamiliar memory, a dream lived by someone else, each window a belief carved in ancestral dust, where the wind whispers legends from a world before time. And in the deepest chamber, beyond words, beyond light, there is an unseen sculptor who still silently carves thoughts, from the remnants of what I was, from the ashes of an old self, creating forms from the shadow that stretches over my eternity.