I can't help you

Look, I can't do much to help you if you have followed me into this place, 

this place which is mine alone to do with as I choose. Perhaps you have filled yourself up with its words, its moods, its hope and its rage. But have you understood anything? Have you understood that this is my place, mine alone to do with as I choose? Have you understood that I fill it with truths that are mine, that may not be the same as your truths, that may even irritate and inflame your truths with discomfort that belongs to me, here in this place which is mine? Have you not understood that in this place I allow myself to play, to breathe, to scream, to sink, to fly, to battle with the impossibilities that burden my life in ways that you cannot imagine? Have you not understood that I will give these inconceivable angularities room to exist in words, here where my impossible life has scratched a tiny voice in a line of letters? Perhaps you have granted yourself the self-indulgent luxury of judgement, or fancied yourself to hold some deeper insight about me, my life, my struggle or my victory because you have followed me into this place. But you have forgotten that this is my place. It is my playground, my castle and my landscape. It looks this way because I made it to look this way. I planted the flowers and dug the oceans and set the stars in its firmament. They are not the same stars that you see. This is not the universe you dwell within. You have simply stumbled into this place, this place which is mine alone, and it is not yours to comprehend.