To write something that is meaningful to someone else, you must first write something that is meaningful to yourself.
There are a thousand rooms in each person's mind, and each mind is a maze because it has been tangled. The hallways are criss-crossing and clumping, like long hair in the wind. Society has made it so.
We all have impure thoughts. Things that would make us "bad", unequal, or imperfect. Thoughts that make us different in gloriously unusual ways. We are born into the world unashamed, but then we are taught the unspoken words. Words that are rules. Words like normal, like good and bad, ugly and pretty. We are taught that if we do not fit the rule of "good", we are bad. We are evil, we are tainted, and so we are unwanted.
So, each of us hides our failures; our shortcomings, even though they are exactly the opposite of such. They are a representation of the uniqueness of each human soul, but unique is "bad", and so we hide. And those impure thoughts are hidden in darkened corners of our mazes, trapped in locked closets, guarded by wary soldiers.
But, every so often, we find our way back to that small room, and the guards avoid our eyes, and we rediscover ourselves. We find sanctuary in the unopened space, and quickly shut the doors behind us, lest our sparkling secrets are spilled.
It's a closet of glitter and unopened boxes and the smell of photographs. It's jars of buttons and déjà vu and moth-eaten gowns, and it is our private place. We open the doors late at night and the secrets spill from our maze into our real room, into the dark.
It's this room that connects everything. It is where our dreams exist (tiny figures in heavy shoe boxes) and it's where love begins. Because to love, we have to allow someone into our secret room. They take in the scent of our hidden things, our fear of exposure, and they unzip their hearts and we see the sweet innocence trapped in their own room, and we understand. Because if there is not understanding, if there is not soul sharing, there is not love.