A [wo]mans mind is that of a beautiful creation; this creation was not made by man, or god himself. This creation is one made by an inner self; a self image, if you will. This masterpiece is made of delicate shards of glass, but as strong as Himalayan rock. This creation-this masterpiece is one created for the user by its master-its mistress, by the beholder, or its owner. This is how we perceive the world, and how we leave a sort of tattoo on the place(s) we have touch(ed).
When a person communicates with another [human] being, a story is told, and another thread to the grand design of one's "rug" is added. The person(s), its true-is not complicated nor is the story. Every person(s) has a perspective, or "bubble" in life (and afterlife). When you listen to a person(s) story, the one who speaks of it understands it simply, but the one who must bear to listen is the (one(s) who have a dampened mind. When words begin to be spoken, person(s) listen, and untangle each and every syllable. A person will stand there and listen, perceive the information being given, and form an opinion. We stand and analyze, but that not always the case.
When we have a dream, we create a fantasy, a world perfect to our liking and our wants. We create an atmosphere: we create times and dates, people and changing seasons. It truly is another world, purely of images you, as the beholder, create. But when these dreams come a reality, every detail, every aspect must be the same as the phantasia created. Every day this fantasy is lived, you must struggle to battle between this world and reality. You receive a type of mental whiplash and the real world shines through, crashing and stretching your limits.
No one understands this concept, because they refuse to face, or own up to it, and continue to live there life as a lie. Sinners are everywhere, and when (if ever) you meet a saint, drop on your knees and bow down, because you are then at God's feet. This is not medical science, or psychological.
This world we create is meant for our eyes only, and when people begin to look behind the cloak we set up, we panick. When this phantasia is designed, humanly possible or just a [day] dreamer.
You could continue to listen to me mubly these words, and try to comprehend what they mean without asking questions; you could re read and re listen to what I have to say, but that will not change the concept(ion)...
What is my name though? He calls me Baby Storm, they call me Storm, my Mother and my Father call me daughter. But my name?
My name is Stormy, and this is my story...