I’ve always wandered. Not with a map or pack—lazily, on the side. City parks, random beaches, museums where dust chokes old bones. Travel was background, like a clock ticking in an empty house. I looked at the world; it stayed silent.
Then I heard them. Stones. Ruins. A voice that breaks the quiet. It was by the sea, where waves smear mosaics and wind carries decay—maybe in Cilicia, maybe ancient hills. The stones spoke: whispers of empires, gods’ scorn, groans of merchants whose ships sank. They didn’t ask—they demanded.
I can’t stop now. The voice of ruins is a virus, cracking my reality. It pulls to places where time broke: tombs in cliffs, aqueducts drained to dust, statues where kings tried for eternity and fell. I climb gorges, swallow sand, hunt traces in stone. This isn’t sightseeing; it’s a fight with the void.
My posts are letters from where stones outtalk humans. Not just Cilicia’s ports or Pamphylia’s graves, but hills where temples stood before words, valleys where stars burned brighter than gods. Each site is a scar, where chaos spins its thread and history feasts on debris.
If you hear this voice, come along. If not, close the tab. The stones don’t speak to all.
#VoiceOfRuins #Ruins #Antiquities #Travel #Turkey #History #Archaeology #Mystic
Our Telegram-channel: Voice Of Ruins
Leave a Reply