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I lay my head upon the sweet sweet earth,
As the stillness sings around me
Every breath I sink deeper
As the sweet sweet earth holds me
I rest my head upon this blossoming tree
As the gift of grace embraces me
I belong to everything
As the deep deep mystery shows me.
On the shore, a tree stood in silhouette, its branches etched against the vast sky. The tide moved with a steady breath, and two old friends lingered in its rhythm. They did not speak, yet every silence was alive with meaning.
The salt air carried their memories, the sky bore witness, and the tree held its place as guardian of their bond. Each unspoken word passed between them like a current, filling their beings with a joy so quiet it seemed woven into the waves.
Here, where land and sea touched, they found again the warmth that time could not erase—yet more than warmth, it was a truth: that friendship is not held by moments, but is the place where presence outlasts the passing of time. And what is shared in silence becomes the deepest voice of all.
Lost
In the storm's fury, the castle stands,
A ruin etched by time’s shifting sand.
Its stones whisper tales of love and sorrows,
Of battles won, and lost tomorrows.
The tempest roars, waves crash below,
Echoing grief that only ruins know.
Yet through the clouds, a golden beam,
A ray of hope—a fleeting dream.
Carved in stone, where silence dwells,
The ghost of love, casts ancient spells.
Its echoes linger, soft and low,
Guiding hearts through life's ebb and flow.
For even ruins, though torn apart,
Hold the weight of an enduring heart.
And as the sun breaks the stormy grey,
The castle whispers—love finds a way.
Lost
The term "mindscape" reminds me of John Lennon's "Mind Games"--a beautiful song.
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My darkness was a sealed chamber, heavy with secrets, impossibilities breathing in silence. I feared not only what others might see, but what it revealed about me—truths I had hidden even from myself. My inner light pressed against that door, not with force but with patience, and patience was pain. To wait, to listen, to not force—this was the hardest choice.
The silence deepened. It pressed against me like words I could not speak, like a love I could not name. I carried it, and still I listened. Night stretched until silence became everything—breath, pulse, horizon. I wondered if it would ever yield, or if I would dissolve into its hush, waiting for a dawn that felt impossibly far.
Yet in that long restraint, something shifted: darkness became soil. From it rose fragile shoots of inspiration, nourished by the ache itself. Hidden within that ache was a warmth haunting in its tenderness, like a secret love living only in shadow.
My darkness did not vanish—it became depth, story, dream. And at last, dawn gathered. The long silence thinned, and in its fragile light, inner light and darkness breathed as one. I am not defined by the dark. I am defined by the way I endure it—by the way I let inner light and darkness speak until they become one. And in that union, a voice rises—haunting and tender, like a loved one’s whisper, hidden yet brought to life in the dawn of my inspiration.
Lost
There is a light that does not belong to the sun, nor to the stars, but to the quiet breath between them. It is not dazzling, nor does it demand attention. It dwells in twilight, where shadows soften and the world learns to breathe more slowly.
Many turn away from that hour, mistaking twilight for loss. Yet those who linger discover its secret: twilight is not less, but more. It is the hour when light ceases to blaze and begins to embrace, when absence reveals itself as presence, when silence carries its own song.
This light is a companion—gentle, enduring. Like friendship, it does not need to be near to be felt. Across great distances, its warmth travels, a hidden thread binding hearts that dare not hide from it.
When we stop fleeing from twilight, we find that this beautiful light is teaching us how to see differently—strength disguised as softness, love disguised as distance, presence disguised as absence.
Lost
I walked a path I trusted the way one trusts an old friend. It wasn’t perfect — I always knew it was fragile — but I believed that if I moved with care, if I honored its delicacy, it would hold me. For a long time, it did. The rocky shore beside it felt like a sanctuary, a place where the wind carried familiar voices and the waves spoke in rhythms I understood. Even when storms rolled in, I felt safe there, as if the world could rage around me and I would still be protected.
But one day the storm didn’t pass. It gathered strength, howling for hours, tearing at the coastline and shaking the ground beneath my feet. Still, I went to the edge like I always did, seeking that familiar step, that small ritual of trust that had always steadied me.
This time, the ground gave way.
The earth I believed in — the earth I had leaned on — crumbled beneath me. I dropped to my knees, hands grasping for anything solid, trying to hold on with everything I had. But the path was too fragile, and my grip was not enough. It broke apart, and I fell with it.
Some may say it was my fault — that I should have known better, that I should have seen the signs. But life is imperfect, and so are the paths we choose. This one led to a beauty that was indescribable, a place that felt sacred in ways I still can’t fully explain. The only thing was… it always seemed like private property. As if I was allowed to walk there, but never truly allowed to stay. As if the beauty I found was never really mine to hold.
Now I find myself at the bottom of that collapse — not just fallen, but broken in ways I never expected. I’m left trying to understand how something so trusted could disappear beneath me, how a path that once felt so safe could shift without warning. And now I’m learning what it means to stand again after the ground itself has betrayed my trust.
I don’t know yet how long it will take to rise, or what shape I’ll be in when I do. But even broken things can find their way back to the light. Even shattered edges can reveal new paths. And maybe — just maybe — the fall itself is not the end, but the beginning of learning how to walk again with a different kind of strength.
Lost
Cycle I – Twilight
At the world’s edge, the lighthouse stood, its fractured flame trembling against the mist. Aelion, keeper of the light, had sworn to guard the fragile passage between friendship and forgetting.
Beneath the waves, Thyra, goddess of Hidden Shoals, shaped misunderstandings into jagged reefs. She veiled them in mist so that concealed thoughts became storms of confusion.
Above, the Anemoi Phantasmoi, ghosts of love, drifted across the twilight sky, carrying whispers of memory and longing. Their chorus rose:
“We are the ache that lingers. We are the sunset of longing. “Without us, even love dissolves into shadow.”
Aelion lifted the lantern:
“If hope is lost, let longing be the compass. If love drifts, let memory be the sail.”
Thus began the twilight oath: a broken flame, a keeper’s vow, and the ghosts of love as guides.
Cycle II – Storm
Thyra summoned a storm, born of concealed thoughts and unspoken truths. The sea roared, waves rising like accusations. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the hidden shoals.
Ships approached, trembling in the gale. Among them were the Pilgrim Ships, vessels carrying seekers of reconciliation. Their captains prayed to the beacon, believing it a sacred light.
“Guide us, broken flame. Even fractured light is holy.”
The storm pressed harder, whispering:
“Friendship founders on silence. Love breaks upon misunderstanding.”
Aelion cried out to the ghosts:
“Strengthen the flame, lest all be swallowed!”
The Anemoi swirled around the lantern, igniting it with pale fire. The beacon pierced the storm, illuminating the shoals. Ships faltered, some scarred, some saved.
Thyra rose from the sea, sorrow in her eyes:
“Keeper, you defy me. You turn loss into light. But every friendship carries its twilight. Every love must drift into sunset.”
Cycle III – Dawn
The storm dissolved into silence. The sea calmed, and the shoals lay revealed—sharp, merciless, yet glistening in the new light.
The Pilgrim Ships, battered but alive, sailed into the morning. Their scars were visible, but so was their faith. They had learned to read the rocks, to honor silence, to steer with memory.
Thyra bowed her head before the rising sun:
“Keeper, you have turned loss into light. You have shown that even twilight can yield to dawn.”
Aelion lowered the lantern, its flame steady now:
“Yes. For every friendship carries its twilight, every love drifts into sunset. But beyond the storm, beyond the ache, there is dawn. And in dawn, the beacon endures.”
The ghosts of love dissolved into the morning sky, their song lingering like breath:
“Hope may falter, love may drift, but memory guides, and light remains.”
Lost
I created a guide below.
The sky was low and dark, the sea restless beneath it. I stood at the edge of the world, where the sand turns to foam and the air forgets how to be still. My chest tightened. Breath came in fragments. I wasn’t drowning, not exactly—but I was no longer breathing freely.
Then I felt her.
Not seen, not heard—felt. Like a thought whispered inside of my mind. Like the hush before thunder. Her presence moved through me, as if the wind had learned to speak in silence.
I tried to answer. I reached for words that might hold her shape, her light, her otherworldly intelligence. But language faltered. Nothing I said could match the way she shimmered through the storm.
Still, I whispered: “If I could find the right words, maybe you’d stay. Maybe you’d fill my mind with your nearness, and I could rest.”
And then—she broke through.
A shaft of gold through the bruised sky. A warmth that wrapped around me, not like fire, but like memory. The wind rose, circling me in spirals, and I felt myself slipping—not falling, but unraveling. And yet I was held. Not by arms, but by something older. Something vast.
A voice—hers, or the sea’s, or my own longing—rose inside me: “You’ve wandered after me for so long. Why?”
I answered without thinking. “Because I can’t sleep without your breath in my lungs. I can’t wake without your shadow in my dreams. I need to feel your light… and your storm.”
She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. Her silence was a kind of embrace.
And in that moment, I knew: she was not a woman. She was the wind that transforms. The dusk that listens. The sea that waits.
I stepped forward, though the tide pulled at my ankles and the wind pressed against my chest like a warning.
Me: “Let me stay. I’ll give up everything—my name, my breath, my past. I’ll become the silence between waves if it means I can be near you.”
She shimmered, not with light, but with presence. Her voice came not from her mouth, but from the air itself—threaded through the salt and storm.
Her: “You speak like the sea speaks to the shore—always reaching, always retreating. But you are made of time. I am not.”
Me: “Then take my time. Let it dissolve. I don’t need years, only moments. Only you.”
The wind circled me, lifting my hair, my thoughts, my longing. She moved closer, though she never touched me. Her warmth was everywhere and nowhere.
Her: “If you stay, you will forget how to breathe. Your body will unravel. Your soul will stretch too thin. I am the wind—you cannot live inside me.”
Me: “But I already do. Every night I dream of you. Every morning I wake with your voice in my chest. Isn’t that living inside you?”
She paused. The waves stilled. Even the storm seemed to listen.
Her: “You live in the ache of me. In the echo. But not in the core. I am endless. You are not. If you cross fully into my world, you will vanish. Not die—just cease.”
Me: “Then let me vanish. Let me become the hush before your thunder.”
She stepped closer. The sky broke open behind her, streaked with gold and violet. Her eyes—if they were eyes—held centuries.
Her: “You are beautiful in your longing. But your beauty is in your breath, your heartbeat, your impermanence. I cannot hold what must change.”
I fell to my knees, not from pain, but from knowing. The tide kissed my skin. The wind cradled my sorrow.
Me: “Then speak to me once more. Let me carry your voice into my world. Let me remember.”
She leaned in, and the wind whispered through me like a final embrace.
Her: “You will forget my face. But not my feeling. You will lose my voice. But not my silence. Go now. And when the dusk listens, you’ll know I’m near.”
And then—she was gone.
Lost
I came to an island adrift in the vastness, a sanctuary where silence is not absence but a living presence. It is the silence of my world, born of a quiet ache—the loss of her, once near, now vanished into the unseen. This hush gathers around me like twilight, mending what was broken, steadying what was restless, yet never erasing the shadow of longing.
Upon its shores, I kneel in the sand. My words are not merely spoken but breathed as prayers through trembling hands. The tide erases them, yet their essence lingers, carried into the sea’s eternal rhythm. And in that rhythm, I hear her voice, tender and unwavering:
She speaks through the Sea: “I have never left you. My breath moves in the waves, my love rests in the tide. Each crest carries my memory, each retreat my return. I hold your ache, and I give it back as calm. I am yours still.”
Mist rises from the island’s heart, drifting like a spirit across stone and grove. It enfolds me, and within its veil I feel her shadow walking beside me—her nearness pressing against my soul, her devotion woven into the air.
She whispers through the Mist: “I walk with you, unseen but near. I am the touch you cannot hold, the silence that still embraces. Loss is not emptiness— it is another way of being close. In my veil, I enfold you. You are mine, always.”
And then the sunset arrives—pale as the moon. It does not blaze with fire, but glows with quiet mercy, a silvered light softening the horizon. Gold fades into pearl, crimson into rose, violet into ash. In its pallor, I see her face in the sky, luminous and tender, her gaze woven into the evening hush.
She proclaims through the Pale Sunset: “I am remembrance, and I am yours. What was presence is now light, what was loss is now flame. Your words rise into me, and I crown them with stillness. Your ache is not a wound, but a passage. Through me, longing becomes peace, and silence becomes song. I love you still.”
And then, as twilight deepens, her voices gather together—sea, mist, and pale sunset speaking as one, yet carrying her devotion:
Her Chorus sings: “I cradle your loss, I hold your longing. I veil what is absent as nearness, I transfigure ache into light. In my hush, you are not alone. In my cycle, you are remade. I am with you, always.”.
Here, in the silence of my world, I am renewed. Twilight is not a fading, but a threshold. Sand, sea, mist, and pale sunset form a cycle, a myth of belonging where longing becomes peace. Concealed yet revealed, I stand at the island’s heart, listening as she walks beside me, her love woven into the island—and in that hush, I am remade.
Lost
The sky was a tempest, bruised and wild,
A canvas torn by thunder’s child.
Winds howled truths I dared not face,
Each gust a ghost I could not chase.
But then—your voice, a quiet stream,
Soft as dusk in a fading dream.
No grand decree, no mighty spell,
Just words where gentleness chose to dwell.
You spoke of hope not yet undone,
Of battles lost, but not the sun.
And in your tone, the storm grew shy,
Its fury dimmed beneath your sigh.
The clouds, once clenched in wrathful fists,
Unfurled like petals softly kissed.
Lightning paused, as if to hear
The lullaby you drew so near.
Now twilight hums a softer tune,
The sky wears shades of silver moon.
And I, once wrecked by wind and rain,
Find peace within your sweet refrain.
Lost
The things I know that I don't know.
Things I know there are probably things to know about, but don't really grasp what it is I'm supposed to know.
Things I think I know, but don't really know.
Things I feel like I might have heard about once, but don't quite recall.
Things I have never heard about.
Things nobody has ever heard about.
Things that cannot be known.
Things that...?