There are palaces I love going back to and this might be one of them. This small, dilapidated ruin of mine is where I like to come to make a sanctuary.

These walls were once high and cathedral, easing out at the clouds with a certain grandeur to their stature.
We once had a space between us to where we’d join hands and conjured prayers out of what we figured was the truth. Smoke, fire and things too fast to dodge.
Every waking day and every fearful night, goodness I’d come to learn from that space spewed out of me into the space around me. I was a vassal and a very good one at that. It built something that wasn’t beautiful, something almost unpure and . Nothing known here. For a time.

There are reminders, ones that live beneath me and every soul I’ve buried beyond the 6 feet under this palace. There are reminiscents of chaos, bludgeoning madness and red soaked hands littered all around this temple, but I had not learnt. The creator would always stand in my way whenever I’d try to bid those scenes goodbye. I was chunked back in and made to say those prayers all over again.

I knew nothing aside from what I was forged through, nothing but the relentless pursuit of something I thought I was ought to believe in, but I couldn’t.
So I walked up to my creator, stretch my forearm out, shook his hand and walk past.
I was free. For the first time, the night didn’t bring fear and I didn’t rage, lashing out at something that wasn’t there anymore from my sleep. The sun fell softly onto my skin and closing my hands together was something I didn’t feel the need to do. I felt I was opening from the depths and a new normal was to come of me. In this ruined, damaged place, this make-shift haven,
I was home.