The fortress stands secluded, far removed from everyone, everything. Remote. With the doors closed, there's perfect isolation. Access denied. But the window makes the reverse impossible: the Sun pours in with it's happiness, the moon, calmness.
The fortress, though an illusion, makes what is real surface. Such is the irony. But that is what makes it so special. The fortress is a catalyst. It's more than just bricks and stones. Refuge.
It is difficult to say which derives meaning from who. Whether it's me, defining and creating the fortress and taking it to something extraordinary or the fortress itself, instigating everything, instilling the protective emotions. Maybe it's a mutual existence, a fortunate one.
The fortress stands, comfortable for the lone owner.