In the quiet corners of my mind, there’s a secret place where time stands still. Abandoned castles overlook vibrant gardens, and rivers run clear as crystal. Here, I reside—a solitary cottage, my sanctuary, where I devour the words of Dostoyevsky and pen verses about the dreams that visit me at night. These dreams paint the life of a girl, my counterpart, whose existence mirrors yet opposes my own. I drift into her world, where she, like me, finds solace in books—not for the love of stories but as a refuge from her reality, a world that is unkind and relentless. Although surrounded by the constant hum of people, she seeks not their company but the distraction they offer from the echoes of her own thoughts. Her diary, a vault of penned emotions, traps memories not to relive but to encage. Each entry locks away a piece of her life, transforming recollections into distant stories—observed but no longer felt. She often murmurs apologies, too many and too frequent, as though she bears the burden of her very existence. Her life oscillates between torrents of words and profound silences—her voice either a flood or a drought. Though she lives when I dream, and dreams when I live, in our moments of sleep, our worlds overlap, meeting in a dreamland where the lines between reality and imagination blur. I wander through the maze of her mind, an unseen companion. We meet in the quietest corners of her thoughts, places so deep within her that she convinces herself I'm just a figment of imagination. A thin veil of doubt separates us; she can't see or feel me as I do her, and I often wake with a tear slipping down my cheek, grieving the distance between her disbelief and my existence. Unseen and unbelieved, I can only weep quietly for her sorrows under the silent watch of the stars.
2087
jacobvanloon
dededos
kianamaiart
annaxmalina
