What is freedom in eternal night?

A steady step amidst the blight.

A steadfast heart that dares to see,

The vast expanse of destiny.

To hold the love of those who care,

And, in return, to bravely share.

To cherish self, to stand alone,

To weave your dreams into the known.

Freedom breathes where truth is found,

Amidst the silence, its call resounds.

It lives within, a guiding flame,

A beacon, fierce, that none can tame.

Through days of darkness, cold and drear,

Freedom whispers, steady, clear:

“Rise, for you are more than these—

The storms, the tides, the bending seas.”

“The heart knows the roads the mind cannot traverse. To follow it is to walk with faith through the shadows.”

Follow your heart; let it softly sing,

Through joy’s ascent and sorrow’s sting.

It whispers truths no mind can see,

A melody of what shall be.

Through silent halls where shadows fall,

It leads, unyielding, past the wall.

Though reason balks, though fear may bind,

The heart persists, steadfast, aligned.

It falters not through doubt’s parade,

Nor wearies of the trials laid.

It weaves its course through darkest woe,

And in its faith, new gardens grow.

Follow your heart; it is your star,

A guiding light, both near and far.

It carries you through boundless strife,

The compass of your fleeting life.

“He saw her not as she was, but as his heart willed her to be—a vision of all he cherished and all he dreamed.”

He found his Dulcinea fair,

Her gentle grace beyond compare.

In her, he saw a world divine,

A truth that mirrored his own design.

But I have yet to find your gaze,

To walk with you through twilight’s haze.

He claimed his muse with heart alight,

Yet I am adrift in endless night.

Oh, may my smile one day reveal,

A love as pure, a dream as real.

May I, too, find a heart so true,

To weave my days in gold and blue.

“Where am I? Should I even write in your pages, my diary? I need to be honest with someone, but perhaps only with myself. I am caught between walls—it’s chess, where I am the prisoner of inquisitors. Yet, in the end, it is all in my mind. Kasparov defeated the computer, Zeland found the reality of Transurfing, Napoleon believed in his vision. Who am I, and where should I go? Are there no doors, or are these just doors I no longer need? What stops me from breaking this reality and building my own? I have that strength—I do not need the confines of others’ rules. But do you?”

Between shadows and corridors, the past whispers its riddles.

How much capricious folly hides in love, unseen?

Caught between these walls, where time turns back its lean.

Once again, I feel the ache, though not for you—

No, not for you—but for the gaze that pierces through.

My heart, oh, why must it tread the scaffold so vain?

Why cast the hours away, unwisely spent, in pain?

I recall the fissures of parting’s cruel embrace,

A bitter arrow through memory’s fragile trace.

Oppressive halls, where echoes wail and weep,

Cold flickers of candlelight my solace keep.

Through boughs of hollow souls, a shadow’s brand,

The wound of madness carves the mind’s command.

I walk these walls, a prisoner to thought,

A captive of battles that freedom forgot.

Yet still, in the silence, a spark does remain,

A vision of worlds unbound by chains.

You linger with me in the midnight’s depth,

You hold me fast from sorrow’s fatal step.

And though the lies and dreams decay to dust,

To you, my door stays open, as it must.

For beyond these walls, a world may thrive,

Where dreams unfettered take to the skies.

I am not bound by what others decree;

These walls are my making, and I hold the key.

“Nothing compares to you. There is no other city like you, Petersburg. Peter the Great built you in 1703, but before that, you were already a place of great memory and history. You are far older than your stone façades suggest. My mother adored books about the construction of Saint Isaac’s Cathedral. She was a wise and well-read woman, and she often spoke of Montferrand’s genius. Every building in Petersburg speaks—what do you hear?”

I.

Beneath your mists, my soul finds its tether;

In your streets, I lose myself forever.

Oh, Petersburg, my confession is yours,

Your northern airs gnaw my soul with frost’s claws.

Yet in your labyrinths, my heart is sealed,

A captive to your haunting and eternal fields.

You and he—yes, both surround me still,

With winds that chill and passions that thrill.

Through foggy breath and brackish tides,

You weave your mystic spell that never dies.

Your canals stir dreams, Dostoevsky’s despair,

Gogol’s madness still floats in the air.

Pushkin’s grace walks through your stormy night,

While golden spires gleam with eternal light.

No sun can break your iron sky,

Yet twilight domes in splendour lie.

Your beauty binds, your whispers sting,

A phantom’s echo, a raven’s wing.

And in your clutches, I am bent,

An unyielding heart, a soul’s lament.

Your madness fuels my every breath,

Your brilliance guards me against regret.

II.

The stones beneath my feet hold the weight of countless secrets.

I wander your alleys, your shadowed bends,

Crossing roads, seeking where the spirit mends.

The rogue’s path is cloaked, unclear,

Its purpose doused in fire and fear.

Passions surge, unfit, unkind,

Their flame ignites my restless mind.

A gilded cage creaks in the stillness of dreams,

Where forgotten legends stitch their seams.

Thoughts leap like squirrels on ancient boughs,