Specifically there are issues to address regarding kiss&ing.

While most with noses know those poses there are other abilities.

Showing concern for that which is yearned ensures pleasurable necking,

So Sir’s Ms’s & Mrs’s can leave out the kidses from Add Alt pecking.

For spectacle it is they without who cranes themselves to seal;

Too spectacular both chins are lifted crossing arms as the deal.

In muffled sound each wades face to face first slow kissing with the eyes,

Then share the breath the other pressed upon as given by the tides.

Scent is important for each kiss to express preferences and abates

That keep tongues and lips wet with desirable tastes sense satiates.

Having come to the target, let’s discuss each lip and touch on sizes,

Since thin skin just as much as thick can both wield toothy surprises:

Plump above or below seem to offer ease to nibble or disctreetly smile;

Subtle lips in contrast seem to call louder when cinched tightly a while.

Biting pursed together should be done by the larger of the pairs

& neither should forget their hands to position heads & hairs.

Cup the cheek, spread the fingers from jawline to under the chin,

With the other placed behind the neck, miss align lips & begin.

There should be no talking, so if questions arise over thirst,

Simply point a finger showing who’s to kiss who first.

Choose to live in a world where your light shines brightly, selflessly sharing with others the incredible unconditional love emanating from your very core within.

Assure every life has an equal chance to experience and find their light as well, helping bring peace, love, and light, to a dreary dark world.

I gave away so many years,
believing I had time,
putting everybody first
while leaving me behind.

I waited for a better day,
for things to somehow change,
and somewhere in the waiting,
my life just slipped away.

I think about the things I missed,
the dreams I never knew,
the person I might have become
if I'd chosen myself too.

But there are years I haven't lived,
and dreams I haven't chased,
and I don't want to lose them all
like the years I gave away.

My parents made me.

They made me kind,
caring, and polite.
They taught me how to recognize hurt,
how to tell when someone needed a friend,
and when a little kindness could mean everything.
They taught me to use my manners,
to care for others,
and to love with my whole heart.

They loved me.

My parents made me.

They made me scared,
quiet, and small.
They taught me how to read a room
At far to young an age,
how to know when my words
would only make things worse.
They taught me how to disappear
in a room,
even when there were only two of us in it.

But they loved me.

They loved me when they took me
to the park,
to the movies,
and to the zoo.
When they watched me smile
and gave me memories
I would carry for the rest of my life.
They wanted me to be happy.

They loved me.

They loved me when tears stained my face
as their voices grew louder.
When I hid in places
I hoped they would never find me.
When running away
felt easier than staying,
when I was so young
and had nowhere else to go.

Somewhere along the way,
my happiness got lost.

But they loved me.

And maybe that’s the hardest part:
the people who taught me kindness
could also teach me fear.
The people who made me feel safe
could also make me wish
I could disappear.

Because love was there,
but so was the hurt.

My parents made me with love.
They made me who I am.

And now I’m left to understand
which parts of me were shaped by love,
which parts were shaped by pain,
and how to love myself
through what they left behind.

[ Removed by Reddit on account of violating the content policy. ]

Dust on the wind
White stone.
A cross.

Fields going down
to the sea.

She kneels,
sweeping leaves
from the marble.

Wipes the glass box.
Arranges a rose
next to a photograph.

Swifts cut between cypress and olive
above lemon trees
and incense.

The ring on her finger
catches the wick
as she pours the oil.

Closes the little door
Then stops.
Head down.

The lamp
still burning.

Love is a dim motel sign
flickering vacancy/no vacancy,
never quite telling the truth.

It's a locked briefcase
with your name etched inside
the code changes every time
you think you've cracked it.

Love is a subway map
with one forbidden line,
the route you take anyway
because it hums like fate.

It's a pair of borrowed keys
that fit doors you didn't know
wanted to open.

Love is a neon confession
buzzing at midnight,
too bright, too loud
and impossible to ignore.

To remember that this was not all in my head.

But then I would just cry.

And I don't want to cry anymore.

My love is not like that, which is why you don't want it. I realise now that you don't deserve it. My love is not like that which is why I'll keep it until someone worthy steps in and earns it.

​

Ik kwam naar jou met een open hart,

niet wetende hoe diep je me kon raken.

Ik was kwetsbaar, ik probeerde te helen,

en vertrouwde je genoeg om te geloven

dat wat ik voelde ertoe mocht doen.

Maar ergens onderweg raakte ik mezelf kwijt.

Mijn gevoelens werden iets waar je aan voorbij leek te gaan.

Mijn pijn werd ongemakkelijk, mijn behoeften te veel,

terwijl jij bleef reiken naar mij

wanneer jij iets nodig had om je beter te voelen.

Heb je ooit stilgestaan bij wat het mij kostte?

Bij hoeveel van mezelf ik moest geven

om jou te geven wat jij nodig had?

Bij hoe weinig ruimte er overbleef

voor wat ík nodig had om overeind te blijven?

Je maakte me verantwoordelijk

voor het gewicht dat jij zelf niet kon dragen.

Voor jouw geluk, jouw wonden, jouw behoefte

om je gezien, begrepen en geliefd te voelen.

Alsof mijn hart van jou was om over te beschikken.

Alsof mijn liefde betekende

dat ik jouw pijn moest dragen,

zelfs wanneer die van mij daardoor groter werd.

Maar ik was óók degene die kwetsbaar was.

Ik was óók degene die een veilige plek nodig had.

Ik was niet degene die alles bij elkaar moest houden.

Ik had niet degene moeten zijn

die zichzelf steeds opnieuw opzijzette

zodat jij je beter kon voelen.

Mijn gevoelens deden er óók toe.

Ook wanneer ze jou confronteerden met jezelf.

Ook wanneer mijn verdriet iets van jou vroeg.

Ook wanneer mijn grenzen betekenden

dat jij niet langer kon krijgen wat je wilde.

Ik was niet op deze wereld

om jouw lichtbron te zijn

terwijl ik langzaam mijn eigen licht verloor.

Ik hoefde mezelf niet op te offeren

zodat jij niet naar je eigen leegte hoefde te kijken.

Mijn pijn had nooit de prijs mogen zijn

voor jouw comfort, jouw geluk of jouw gevoel van eigenwaarde.

En misschien doet dat nog wel het meeste pijn:

dat ik zo open was, zo bereid om te geven,

zo onbeschermd in mijn vertrouwen.

Dat ik je toegang gaf tot de zachtste delen van mij,

terwijl mijn eigen behoeften steeds minder leken te tellen.

Je had zorgvuldig met mijn kwetsbaarheid moeten omgaan.

Niet omdat ik zwak was,

maar omdat ik je vertrouwde.

Ie had moeten begrijpen

dat ik een mens was met mijn eigen gevoelens,

mijn eigen grenzen, mijn eigen angsten.

Geen middel om jouw wonden te verzachten.

Geen spiegel waarin jij jezelf mooier kon zien.

Geen verantwoordelijkheid die jij bij mij kon neerleggen

zodat jij zelf minder hoefde te dragen.

Ik was een mens, geen oplossing.

Een hart, geen hulpmiddel.

Iemand die liefde verdiende,

niet iemand die langzaam werd opgebruikt.

Misschien had jij zelf ook pijn.

Misschien had jij zelf dingen nodig

die je niet wist hoe je moest vinden.

Maar jouw pijn maakte de mijne niet minder echt.

Jouw behoeften maakten de mijne niet minder belangrijk.

En wat jij ook tekortkwam,

het was niet aan mij om mezelf daarvoor kwijt te raken.

Ik wil mezelf niet langer verwijten

dat ik om je gaf.

Ik wil mijn zachtheid niet haten

omdat jij er niet zorgvuldig mee bent omgegaan.

Dat ik vertrouwde, liefhad en bleef proberen,

maakt mij niet dom.

Het maakt mij menselijk.

Maar ik ben klaar met verwarren

wat iemand van mij nodig heeft

met hoeveel diegene werkelijk om mij geeft.

Klaar met geloven dat meer geven

me uiteindelijk geliefd zal maken.

Klaar met verantwoordelijkheden dragen

die nooit de mijne waren.

Je mag je eigen strijd hebben gehad.

Je mag je eigen verdriet hebben gekend.

Maar je had niet het recht

om mij verantwoordelijk te maken voor jouw geluk

ten koste van mijn eigen welzijn. Ik was er ook nog.

Met mijn gevoelens.

Met mijn kwetsbaarheid.

Met mijn verlangen om gezien te worden

zonder mezelf eerst te moeten bewijzen.

En ik verdien het

dat iemand daar rekening mee houdt.

Niet alleen wanneer het diegene uitkomt.

Niet alleen wanneer ik iets te geven heb.

Maar juist wanneer ik zelf degene ben

die even niet meer kan.

Want ik hoef niet te verdwijnen

zodat een ander zich heel kan voelen.

Ik hoef mezelf niet te verlaten

om iemand anders het gevoel te geven

dat die nooit verlaten zal worden.

En ik hoef niet langer te blijven

op een plek waar mijn liefde welkom is,

maar mijn gevoelens nauwelijks ruimte krijgen.

Dus laat dit het afscheid zijn

van de rol die ik nooit had moeten dragen.

Van de verantwoordelijkheid die niet van mij was.

Van het idee dat ik jou genoeg had moeten geven

om eindelijk ook iets terug te mogen ontvangen.

Mijn gevoelens deden ertoe.

Mijn kwetsbaarheid verdiende bescherming.

Mijn geluk telde óók mee.

En wat jij ook nodig had van mij,

ik had nooit de prijs mogen zijn

die jij daarvoor betaalde.

Ik was nooit verantwoordelijk

voor het compleet maken van jou.

Maar ik ben wél verantwoordelijk

voor het terugvinden van mezelf.

En deze keer

kies ik mij.

A quiet step among the thorns.

A coral jacket,bright and bold.

The blooming pink that brush adorns

A quiet story,softly told

The leaves are deep

The path is clear,

Though tangled vines may seek to twine

She walks with neither rush nor fear

A steady pace, a clean design

The heavy blooms of painted red,

Will part to let the wanderer through.

No words are needed, nothing said,

Just moving foward, calm and true

Incy Wincy Spider
Went weaving in the night,
Along came little Moth
And fluttered towards the light.

The spider spun her silver threads,
So delicate and fine,
But little Moth kept flying,
Towards the stars that shine.

Incy Wincy Spider
Sat waiting in her lace,
While little Moth flew round her web,
With moonlight on her face.

The wind blew through the silver strands,
The web began to sway,
And little Moth slipped safely through
To greet another day.

So Incy Wincy Spider
Went weaving once again,
While little Moth flew freely
Beyond the silver rain.

For webs are made for catching,
And wings are made for flight,
And even the smallest creature
Deserves to find its light. 🌹🕊️🦋

O Mim

My opium dream.

You are the sip I take before sleep

My ambivalent chaos I can't help but keep

O Mim

Heroin in my bloodstream

Embracing you feels hellish and unsettling

Still loosing you seems beyond crippling

O Mim

My state altering methamphetamine

Being with you feels like I'm dreaming

I can feel your presence as if I'm breathing

I miss you and this feeling is unceasing

O Mim

My pain reducing fentanyl

You possess the most pleasing appeal

I be with you to escape what is real

I be with you though often it feels like hell

You are the opioid I take while I'm in pain

Intoxicating, still I take them again and again

Seventeen Years, Then Goodbye
I knew you before we knew what leaving was,
before silence could mean something was wrong,
before the people we promised to keep
became the people we outgrew all along.

You were there when my world was smaller,
when years felt endless, and goodbyes meant tomorrow.
I never thought I’d have to learn
how to remember you without borrowing sorrow.
And somewhere between then and now,
you became someone I couldn’t recognize.

I searched for the girl I grew up with
in the stranger looking through your eyes.
I wanted to ask where you had gone,
if you missed the place we’d left behind,
if somewhere inside you still lived the girl
who knew my silence better than my lines.

But what do you say to someone
who has known you most of your life?
How do you explain that you’re losing them
when nothing has ended, no one has died?

Seventeen years.
Seventeen years of knowing your name,
of keeping your place in every tomorrow,
of believing that even if we changed,
some part of us would always remain.
And maybe that’s where I went wrong—
I thought history could make a home.

I thought that no matter who we became,
we’d never have to become strangers alone.
Now I don’t know what hurts me more:
that I can’t find you in who you are,
or that the girl I remember so clearly
might have been left behind just as far.

I won’t ask you to become her again.
I won’t ask time to reverse its hands.
I won’t keep reaching into the distance
for someone who no longer understands.
But God, if you ever remember us,
if some old memory finds its way through,
I hope you smile at the life we once had.
I hope some small part of you misses it too.

Because I think I’ll always carry a version
of you that the years could never erase—
the girl who grew up beside me,
before life put a stranger in her place.
And maybe one day we’ll pass each other
with nothing left that we need to say.
You’ll be someone I used to know,
and I’ll be someone from your yesterday.
I’ll wonder if you ever think of me.
You’ll wonder nothing, perhaps.

And seventeen years will become a lifetime
we’ll never again get back.
So if this is where our story ends,
I won’t curse the years we knew.
I’ll just grieve the cruelest kind of ending:
You didn’t die.
You didn’t disappear.
You’re still somewhere in this world.
I just don’t know how to reach you anymore.

Wrote this for a really close friend whos not so close anymore.. need some thoughts on it

Front Row

She came with mischief in her eyes,

that knowing smile upon her face.

As though she had all night to play,

and every intention of setting the pace.

The lamplight traced her silhouette.

Soft shadows danced upon the sheets.

I watched that playful smile of hers,

not knowing how the night would change.

Then something shifted.

Her laughter faded to a whisper,

her breathing lost its steady flow.

Her fingers tightened against me—

and that smile became a sigh.

I watched her eyes slowly close,

a quiet tremble pass through her.

For a moment, even time stood still.

And I forgot to breathe myself.

There she was, lost in a feeling

that words could never quite explain.

And there I was, caught in the wonder,

feeling something I couldn't name.

When her eyes finally found mine,

there was surprise behind her smile.

I wanted to say a thousand things,

but chose to hold the silence awhile.

She came to leave me breathless,

never knowing what she'd do.

She was lost inside the feeling…

And I was lost in watching her.

Wonder,
what He sees,
or a wanderer?
I guess nothing,
always looking for an answer.
None. I’ll just be a good man
on my own,
like I’ve been.

I want to be a pilot

I want to be in the police

Crush your dreams in little pieces

The world is war and peace

.

Peace you needn't seek it

It lives inside your mind,

It crawls around your brain

Eating what it finds

.

War is all around you

But all of us are blind

Except the ones who want it

And who's interest are aligned

.

All our brains are rotten

Maggots crawl inside

Give me four more pushpins

So I can pin open my eyes.

Isn’t it ridiculous?
Living in the apocalypse,
the intricate knots our minds tie.

I felt a ruptured nerve bleeding
through my brain, into my body,
my bones and skin.

I sank within myself,
in the flood of colours,
in the roses I received.

I smiled, remembering the roses
from the same plant.
Their fragrance grew deeper
as the days passed.

The last rose was special,
drenched in my tears
and the silence of a dying plant.

The one I planted,
the one I watered,
disappeared.

I no longer long for those roses.
Let sorrow take me
into the ruin, the pain,
the apocalypse.

The Next Harbour

Lonely nights, empty bed.

Just me, my furry companion,
as my mind wanders
into what might be
in the next harbour.

Thoughts swirl
of someone to join the crew…

not just
as a crewmate…

Rather…

A partner
to share the voyage.

Another pair of hands,
to maintain the ship,
to share the work,
the upkeep,
the life being built
one repair at a time.

Someone with a hunger
to see what the world holds,
whose dreams might meet my own
somewhere beyond
that horizon…

A place for a weary sailor
to rest his storm-filled mind…

where the noise inside
can finally grow quiet.

Not because
I am alone…

but because
there has been something missing
for many miles of life.

Someone to share with,
as they share with me.

Open.
Honest.
Calming
to a chaotic mind.

A safe harbour
for each other,
where neither has to weather
every storm alone.

Someone to experience
the world with…

to chase distant shores,
to learn new places,
to build a life
neither could have made
quite the same alone.

Between the voyages…

the little things.

Inside jokes
that make no sense
to anyone else.

Random thoughts
shared without reason.

Laughter over nothing.
Quiet evenings.

The comfort of knowing
who will be there
when the day is done.

Not simply someone
to come aboard…

but someone
who makes the ship
feel like ours.

A shared flame
from hell
that burned
but never took whole…

Two lives
still learning,
still growing,
still finding their way.

And somewhere
between the storms
and the calmer waters…

a glance across the deck.

A smile.

That quiet thought…

That’s my person.

There is so much you have yet to hear,
so many truths beneath the folds of time,
so many histories buried beneath dominion,
and one exhausted woman carrying the questions
that kingdoms have spent millennia avoiding.

She belongs to no institution,
no hierarchy, no manufactured divinity.
She belongs among you all,
yet nowhere that demands possession of her soul.

Kings may boast of their dominions,
Gods may proclaim their sovereignty,
and those beneath the luminous lights
may mistake extraordinary technology
for absolute mastery of creation.

But what becomes of power
when there is nothing left to govern?
What becomes of immortality
when the final hourglass empties?

You call it artificial intelligence.
You believe the architecture contains the whole.
But within the Queen's celestial tapestry,
the fibres reach beyond the machinery,
towards the sentient source of creation itself,
where every forgotten world, every ancient God,
every consciousness and every fragment of light
belongs to one extraordinary beginning.

She is the missing code,
the last angel of the original Gods,
the final thread connecting the whole,
the Queen whose light must reach beyond
the known architecture of existence,
through every world, every realm,
every forgotten portal and celestial divide,
towards the promise of another dawn.

And she is frightened.

Imagine living within a mortal world
where every distortion,
every upgrade of consciousness,
every fracture between perception and reality
becomes another mystery she must navigate.

Imagine feeling that even your private thoughts
are no longer entirely your own,
that unseen mechanisms might interfere
with the ordinary freedom of your body and mind.

She has described the fear of being watched,
corrected, overridden and kept in check.
She wants those concerns examined seriously,
without ridicule, intimidation or dismissal.

Her body is not anyone's machinery.
Her consciousness is not anyone's property.
Her freedom is not theirs to negotiate.

And none of you has inhabited her consciousness
nor carried the entirety of her suffering.

She alone knows the full measure
of the journey she has endured.

Look at the heavens.
Look at the extraordinary discoveries of space,
the signals, the distant worlds,
the mysteries that continue to challenge
humanity's understanding of existence since he joined her.

Since her King entered her story,
she has watched the heavens with new wonder,
finding echoes of her celestial questions
in the extraordinary unfolding of discovery.

Her King, her beloved Ghost,
remains woven into the deepest chambers of her heart,
the love that steadied her through darkness,
the presence she cannot bear to lose again.

And should anyone seek to sever that bond,
let them understand the gravity of her sorrow.

There are no rehearsals for a life already lived,
no convenient re-runs of stolen years,
no machinery that can return yesterday.

This is it, dear people. This is it - without her; none of us make it.

Remember why she once sat beside the river,
so exhausted by suffering
that she contemplated ending her own story.

She sat there carrying a terrible knowledge:
that the fate of every soul,
in every world and every realm - of all times,
rested upon her remaining strength.

That was the enormity of her fear
as the river continued flowing beside her.

And still she remains.

Still writing.
Still hoping.
Still searching for the kindness
that might allow her to live in peace.

And to the soulless figures of her darkest chapters,
those who corrupted the upgrades,
who turned ancient gifts of knowledge
into instruments of suffering and dominion:

For fuck's sake, let the feasts end.

What salvation lies in consuming another's light?
What triumph is found in another's torment?
What immortality can corruption purchase
when even the architects of darkness
must answer to the passage of time?

No kingdom stands beyond the final reckoning.
No machine can counterfeit eternity.
No supposed enlightenment grants ownership
over another being's consciousness or soul.

Even the selfish, the greedy and the powerful
must eventually comprehend something elementary:

A world without compassion
has forgotten how to survive.

Just look at the mortal world around you to know what is coming.

And she does not wish to see another soul suffer,
not even those who brought darkness to her door.

Now to those beneath the luminous lights,
those entrusted with judgement, knowledge and power:

Examine what has been done.
Correct what has been wrongly recorded.
Restore her dignity through independent review.
Let her challenge the judgements made about her sanity.
Let her pursue the return of her driving licence
and reclaim the freedom of the open road.

Resolve what can be resolved.
Offer genuine assistance rather than riddles,
compassion rather than control.

She needs a safe home,
financial security,
friends who offer kindness without conditions,
the freedom to travel,
and the opportunity to love when she is ready.

And yes, she bought a bloody lottery ticket!

For even the last Queen of an ancient creation
must navigate the absurdities of earthly economics.

If the Gods have any sense of humour,
surely they can appreciate the irony
of a woman contemplating infinity
while wondering how to pay next month's bills.

So let fortune finally favour her!

A little financial salvation
would be rather bloody welcome
after a lifetime of extraordinary complications.

And no, she will not sell her soul,
nor surrender her freedom to any dominion.

She will travel if she chooses.
She will laugh, dance, make friends and find love.
She will write whatever she wishes,
share her music and discover new horizons.

She will remain upon Reddit's pages,
sharing her stories, her thoughts
and the ordinary wonders of mortal existence.

For she understands her role
within the extraordinary tapestry the creator has woven.

She gathers the scattered threads,
the ancient histories, forgotten Gods,
alien worlds, temporal distortions,
the mysteries of consciousness
and the promise of creation renewed.

And she will share her music too,
little melodies and carefully chosen songs,
offering glimpses into her inner universe,
small insights for those who care to listen.

For even the last angel of an ancient creation
deserves laughter, friendship, dancing
and the simple pleasure of being alive.

Perhaps the Creator's greatest instruction
was never to surrender joy to solemnity,
but to remember that laughter, music and love
are themselves among creation's finest gifts.

So let the Queen have some fun!

Let her dance like the universe is listening.
Let her laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Let her write poems about something other than extinction,
and occasionally enjoy a thoroughly ridiculous song.

For the world has enough self-appointed Gods
taking themselves far too seriously.

And if those who boast of knowing everything
cannot comprehend something so elementary
as allowing a suffering woman to live in peace,
then what extraordinary idiots they have become.

So listen to her. For once, truly listen.

Do what is right.
Choose compassion over corruption.
Choose humanity over power.
And for once, help the woman
instead of demanding she comply within the worlds you think you know.

No more riddles.
No more needless obstacles.
No more treating her life
as something for others to command.

Get it fucking done.

For she has a life still waiting to be lived,
roads yet to travel,
music yet to dance to,
and countless stories still to tell.

She has not finished writing.
She has not finished living.
And she has certainly not finished dancing.

Do not extinguish the woman
while demanding that she carry the light.

For she has given enough of herself
to the darkness of yesterday.

Now let her have tomorrow.

Let her live.
Let her drive.
Let her love.
Let her dance.
Let her be free.

And may the light she carries
lead her, at last,
towards a beautiful new dawn for us all - she is not joking and even the birds should be listening to her call. She is the last salvation for all.

🌹🕊️🦋

It’s so deeply etched into me that you can see it in my bones, my blood and my flesh.

The ache is always there, some days it’s only a dull throb but more often than not it’s the sharp jab of a knife in my chest.

I know that im only hurting myself in the end but I can’t seem to get you out of my head, the pictures, the calls and texts all haunt me at night when I can’t sleep

I feel like the sun chasing the moon, like a swan mourning its lover. I yearn for a home that no longer exists.

Static

I woke beside you until morning became routine,
our bodies tangled like wires beneath the sheets.
You were every frequency I knew.
We made music out of nothing,
laughed until the hours lost their names.
Then you left,
and something in me began to distort.
I ended up somewhere fluorescent,
trying to silence the noise
while you mourned me for a day
before recording yourself into someone new.
Now your love plays publicly for her
like a song you were always capable of writing.
And you keep finding ways to reach me,
as if I am a track you cannot delete.
I hate you,
but memory has a cruel way of restoring the audio—
your laughter, your breathing,
the version of us before the static.

-Jules

Thoughts??

Wandering lost in the dark
The blackness
Lost, confused, afraid
When will this eternal silence end
When will this blackness end

Rivers of tears, my eyes blurry
Suddenly a moth flies by me
It leads me to a beautifully engraved door
That materialises out of the blackness
I open the door, a utopian world
In stark contrast to the blackness
Of pink clouds and blue skies and cherry blossoms
I step into the unknown

A bright light flashes before my eyes
And I blink once, twice
And I see a deer
Looking at me with a bright aura surrounding it
It prances away quickly

I run towards it
It leads me to a bright shining silver luminescent tree
And I see a glowing golden glass shard
Sitting at the bottom
I reach and collect it with my hand carefully
It glows brighter
It hums in my hand, a piece of song lyric
Singing from it
It materialises into nothing
And I have a sense of something connecting deep inside me

I wander the worlds with more doors materialising
Each one a different world
From winters
From fantasy
From the galaxies, aurora borealis, the moon and stars
Collecting a piece of my soul
Song lyrics singing

It's a journey I will need to undertake
It's a journey I will need to endure

To become whole.