When a wardrobe could speak

It would tell endless stories.

Like a space ship to other worlds.

A gate into another world.

A hiding place when robots take over yours.

Or just a place in which you can dream on whatever you might enjoy.

It is better to play a villain than to be one.

The one playing the villain in a story could be a legend.

But the one playing a legend might just be another lost cause.

Without all our stories, where would we be?

Have you forgotten all of them?

Have you forgotten how to dream, to tell and dwell?

With a story in your heart even the toughest day can be survived.

Don’t forget to tell a story and to listen to those of others.

The appearance is only a facade, what matters is the heart.

In darkened times we get angry and sad.

We lose our ways and fight battles which aren’t our own, while we try to protect those we love.

So we try to show through our stories what happened, what was and might be.

We tell about the darkest hours, we tell about the brightest moments and the horror one might face.

Facing the horror in a story is different from facing it as a final pay.

What might be a villain for one, might be the hero for another.

But when you heart wants to explore this earth and protect it with love, you might have to cross borders.

If you punish children for things they didn’t do, or make them do what you have done, so you can say that they do the same, it will only end in shame.

In this world a lot of us have lost their ways or never found the one they always wanted.

To play around, to help each other, to spread love not hate, nothing more was asked of us.

Sometimes listening to a fly, a bird and a cat might tell you more than all the engines we built.

Why do (wild) animals usually know when danger is coming, while we think we have everything under our control? Aren’t we part of this earth as well? Shouldn’t we listen to it as well?

Many new islands could appear out of the ocean, many could disappear.

This earth is alive, so what do we fear?

The children won’t be punished for the hate others gave them.

In the end those will only dig their own graves.

I am not afraid of this earth or the whole universe and whatever might be out there.

It just breaks me to see, what so many of us made of it.

The anger often consumes me,

the hate rushing into me,

the fear follows me,

and the horror sits on my shoulders.

What have I done.

Why did I not cry out when I should have?

Buried under millions of stones, a forgotten world.

And the nightmare was when I opened my eyes.

For when I close them, I see another land.

But what about the children?


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