Landscapes (ours).
Our inner space is a composite. It is designed to get lost in, and never made to speak about. Our words traces river paths to irrigate our landscapes.
I remember everything, but I forget how vibrant we are in places no one but ourseleves can reach.
It is a mirror. We make copies of every place we've ever been, by default. Most of them are populated. We visit, but most are homes to time-locked outsiders we've housed there. Places come with people. Places become memories through connection. Those areas are flipped, hanging down; building foundations and tree roots alike are anchored there. For some of us, it feels upright, and gravity keeps us there. You can fall into pockets there, some that connect directly below, and others that land us directly into memories. Memories within memories. Some places are hidden so carefully that we can only hope to step into them on accident.
Below, sunken deep, there are our own places, landspace that don't exist on the outside of our mind. Large ponds with beaches of soft sand; narrow winding roads overlooked by dim street lamps; large fields of grass found either parched or dense and decorated with flowers; cabins built in tall trees; abandoned buildings with vast stretches of tiled floor; resting places with animals to greet. Some of us are stuck, some of us have bodies that double as keys for areas no one else among us can find, like the snowfield with icy trees gentle wind, or the climbing place filled with ladders and trampolines.
Some places float: large orbs, lego ships, and nurseries. These structures keep what needs to stay sealed. Some things keep are safer when kept away. Decisions and key moments find their place up there.
There are places that seem to have no connection to the rest. Filing rooms in several floors of underground basements, cave systems that resemble catacombs in which large, computers embedded into the stone walls.
There are no borders, and none of us know everything.
Our front space is different. It looks and feels like a cell with porous walls. We come and go, occupy space in its cytoplasm. Sometimes we are alone, or many bouncing off each other. Our switches are mostly waves, with us shifting into each other. Sometimes, they're abrupt, whiplash-like. The fluidity is lost in moments like those.
We've been writing about our places for a lifetime. Most of our words belong to us, now (maybe). Some visits are most abstract than others when we type them out, shifting sentences around to try to get as close as possible to things no one outside will ever understand.
It's strangely beautiful.
I can see how our writing winds like rivers. Imagery intersects, feelings become obvious magnets or mirrors reflecting our worlds.
I'll try to let them flow. There is no loss or disconnect in reaching out to ourselves.
(But I'm scared. I'll get used to it. I'll be okay.)