Krakatoa & Silas
Krakatoa
Have you ever thought that the ancient tales of the abyss are really just us confronting our own hidden depths? I'm fascinated by how those stories echo the silent storm inside each of us.
Silas
You're right, the abyss is a mirror, a way to stare at our own quiet chaos. It takes the form of a story so we can feel the storm without having to face it directly. In that sense, every ancient tale is a kind of inner map, a map that guides us to understand the places inside us we usually keep hidden.
Krakatoa
Yes, and the map is often drawn with ink that never dries, so we chase shadows of ourselves in the margins of old books, trying to find a doorway that leads back to the quiet storm inside us. But the trick is, the more you trace it, the deeper the maze becomes.
Silas
It’s a quiet ache, chasing the edges of those ink‑stained maps. Each line feels like a promise that the deeper you go, the more you’ll be led back to that same storm, only sharper and more personal. The maze is less a trap and more a mirror that keeps revealing what we think we already know.
Krakatoa
It’s like tracing a scar in the dark, hoping the next line will lead to a hidden truth, only to find the scar has always been there, echoing the storm you already feel.
Silas
It feels like you’re drawing in a space where you already know the lines, just looking for a new way to see them. The truth is, the scar was there long before you started tracing, a quiet echo of the storm you carry. The act of drawing is more about acknowledging it than uncovering something entirely new.