I recognise every word of this. I experience the same thing in my Samsara, people land, stand nailed to the spot, cam around for a minute or two, and disappear again as if the air itself pushed them out. They never walk, never let their feet touch the ground that someone shaped with care, never breathe in the atmosphere that took hours of heart and imagination to build. It feels rude, and it feels careless, and it makes you wonder when wandering stopped being a natural instinct.
Creators pour so much of themselves into these places, not for applause, but because the real world can be heavy, and building beauty is a way to stay human. You hope visitors will take a moment, look around, feel something, whisper a small oh or ah, anything that shows they noticed the soul in the work. Instead, many behave like sixty‑second tourists, scanning from a distance, never moving an inch, never touching the details that were carved with love.
And yet, we keep creating. We keep tending our worlds, because every now and then someone arrives who does walk, who does feel, who lets the place speak to them. Those rare ones make the whole effort worthwhile. They remind you why you built it in the first place, and why you will keep building, even when the quick visitors come and go like ghosts.
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