Just twenty miles north of the castle is a metropolis of metal and glass, concrete and asphalt. The people mill about, measuring their lives to the second, absorbed in salacious gossip and politics. But within the castle perimeter it is nonsense to measure time that way. The smallest division here is the rising and setting of the sun, the appearing and vanishing of the mighty battlements from the naked eye.
With my back to the stone, the roughness pressing into my skin, my daydreams are picture perfect - from low-res to high definition without the use of the recreational chemicals my friends imbibe nightly. History lives here with the ghouls and ghosts. Under the slivers of moonlight I've seen phantoms pass by, never once acknowledging my presence. But perhaps they are locked in another time, visible but somehow dislocated from the here and now. I'd rather be in these ancient walls, imagining, fantasizing, building “castles in the air” than sitting safely in smog. Haunted places are my sanctuary. How can I be scared of the dead when the living are so volatile?
Wonderland is a sanctuary, as humble as any corner of creation. It is the harken light of dawn and the symphony of eventide hues. It is the moment of quiet reflection on a task well achieved. It is the sense of inner peace that can only come of being your best self.