[private to self | hard to hack]

[anthypants]

In my mind sometimes I see a place that has many doors. The doors are not doors the way you find them inside a house, they are points of turning. The revolution of petals, the way a flower opens and closes. A turning floor of painted glass, stained glass, a turning wall, the revolving ceiling of a chapel. Inside these halls the doors turn again and again, in spiral fashion like a shell, sometimes moving down in lines like the arms of a snowflake. They extend upwards and to the sides, they don't move in a linear fashion, they are always shifting and changing.

There is no ground beneath them.

The walls are not walls like I know them.

I don't understand the things they contain.

I only see the fragments sometimes, and sometimes it seems as if they are moving, and the wind and light that comes from beyond them blows past me.

I don't know what they are.

Some of them, maybe, are places I have been. Perhaps some of them are places that I could go. Others, places I wish never to find.

I don't know what they are.

Memories, different parts of myself. Separate, tiny gardens. Things that are secret, and self-contained.

Perhaps connected somehow to that glass castle in the air, the infinite regression it contains inside.

I don't know, it's only an impression that lingers with me, encases me inside it as I move throughout my day.

A fractal world slipped between dimensions, a secret I don't have enough magic to unlock.

Or simply a symptom of my madness returning, the way the mind can divide and devour itself.

You can never tell with these things.