[my heart, that barless prison]

This is the journal of a grown-up who still checks the backs of closets for the passageway to Narnia and hangs up mirrors in hopes of one day being able to step through them to Wonderland. I drown myself in fairy-tales, mythology and decadent romance. I collect all kinds of trinkets and treasures, seek for nymphs in the woods and cast love spells under the spiral staircase of the age-old library. I wear frilly dresses and combat boots, spend as much time as possible galloping in the woods on a coal black horse and dream of adventures on the great open road. I yearn for the days of magic, the days of the old black rites, of witchcraft and the dark ages.

I was born on the wrong century.

I am Discordia, goddess of strife.