To become like someone else, no matter how much I may admire the person, is a tragic thing. To become like my mother, is worse by far. There lies the woman, bride of Morpheus, resentful from never being heard, but she rarely speaks a word. And now, I frown like her. I love those that will not, or cannot return my love, like her. I hang on to depression like a friend that will turn into a noose, like her.
The Underworld is not my world. Hell is not my world. I was not born into either, but have foolishly traveled through both. It is with this same stupidity leading my course, that I believed I could see my way in and out of all lands safely.
One could learn through pain and suffering in Hell. One could learn from the dead in the Underworld. I would never get stuck in transition. I am not an explorer in my own dimension, but I knew the password that allowed me free reign in other realms. I was given permission, and freedom to journey as I pleased. But I did not take one thing into account. All of this exists solely in the mind. They are someone else’s blueprints, to be sure, yet I am the one who saw its construction. Brick by brick, it is my creation. And as such, it would always be only as stable as my mind. Who will call me back, when only I can exist in that space.