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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.
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 wake—at least, it feels like it. The light feels familiar but so different, like a memory I’ve forgotten. The sky breathes around me, soft and slow, and I wonder if I’m inside a dream or simply inside myself.
Each time I try to rise, the world folds gently inward. The sand ripples like thought, and the air hums with a silence that knows me. I walk through places that feel like echoes—shores shaped by longing, skies steeped in déjà vu, the breeze with the scent of someone I may have loved or only imagined.
She’s always there. Not as a figure, but as a feeling. A warmth behind my ribs. A hush in the wind. Her presence isn’t seen but felt, like the way grief lingers in the corners of joy. I don’t know if she’s real, or if my heart has conjured her to keep me from waking.
I try to wake. I whisper “wake up” like a mantra, like a plea. But each time, my heart answers with a quiet ache, a reminder: You are in love. Not with a person, perhaps, but with the possibility. With the ache itself. With the dream that holds her.
One night—if time still means anything—I stand at the edge of an ocean that reflects not stars, but memories. I see myself, not as I am, but as I long to be, whole, held, known. I whisper to the water, “Let it be true. Or let it be forgotten.”
The water doesn’t answer. It only ripples, like breath.
So, I close my eyes—not to escape, but to surrender. If love is the dream, I will sleep. And if I wake, I hope the dream will have followed me. Or faded gently, like mist at dawn.
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 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
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
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...?
There are days when the sky gathers its clouds, heavy and gray, and the world feels hushed beneath their weight. These are not days to rush through, but to walk slowly—step by step—through the corridors of our own thoughts. The clouds invite us inward, to sit with what is true and meaningful, to listen to the quiet voices of our hearts.
The rain comes, soft at first, then steady, washing away the burdens we no longer need to carry. It falls upon the doubts, the regrets, the illusions we cling to, and carries them out to sea, where they dissolve into the vastness. In this cleansing, we are reminded that not all storms are curses; some are blessings in disguise, teaching us to release.
Above the clouds, unseen but ever-present, the sun waits. Gratitude is that sun—the warmth that never fades, even when hidden. It is the gentle reminder that the people in our lives are not possessions to be held, but gifts to be cherished. To honor them as gifts is to keep the light alive, even on the darkest days.
And so, when the clouds finally part, the sun shines again—not because it has returned, but because we have remembered. Gratitude makes every day luminous. It is the secret sunshine that turns cloudy days into sacred pauses, moments of reflection, and opportunities to love more deeply.
Lost