🤣 SPONTANEOUS AT BUDZ!

No plans. No warning. Probably no idea what’s going on. 😂
Just good music, drinks, questionable dance moves and whatever chaos decides to turn up
11AM grid time
📍 BUDZ
hop://grid.virtual-worlds.zone:8002/Budz/595/553/26

Turn up. Get weird. Blame the vibes. 🍻🔥

Miss Munk will be spinning her wheels of steel at 1 pm grid time, at The Piazza!
Bring your headphones and get on down here and listen to nonstop beat matching and full spectrum sound!



Plug the link into your map and we'll see you there.

http://bridgemere.outworldz.net:8002:Paradise Lagoon

Ab 19 Uhr heißt es: Deutsch, deutsch, deutsch!
-Neue Deutsche Welle
-Deutsch Rock
-Deutsche Hits – alt & neu
Die besten deutschen Songs zum Mitsingen, Tanzen und Abfeiern!
Von den Klassikern bis zu den aktuellen deutschen Lieblingssongs – hier ist für jeden etwas dabei.
Also: Freunde einpacken, gute Laune mitbringen und dabei sein!
TYPISCH DEUTSCH – WIR FEIERN UNSERE MUSIK!
Sonntag | ab 19 Uhr
Kommt vorbei und feiert mit uns! ❤️

ANNOUNCEMENT
hey all animeshies fans!
Im happy to tell, the dolfin pod is ready, jumpin, foolin about.....
this is the basic setup; later I will add a version with special effects embedded.
U can watch em @ the W-coast of my shop island.
Have fun!:)

AVW grid we have built a dedicated region called HoneyBee, this region has a club and nature walk with bee's of course and best of all it's all copy. Leave a comment for the builder Shea Butter when you visit. avirtualworld.org:8002/AVW Welcome

Join us for an unforgettable session at the New Landing Point in Alternate Metaverse Grid!
Expect a rich musical journey with rock anthems, romantic ballads, couples’ dance tunes, and high-energy dance tracks to get your heart racing.

Bring your friends, your dance shoes, and your love for great music. Let’s start the day with rhythm, connection, and pure virtual joy.

Hypergrid enabled – everyone is welcome!

hop://alternatemetaverse.com:8002/Alternate%20Metaverse/34...

Every day I open this, someone is attacking someone. Why? I am writing this to everyone because we need to talk about the ongoing drama and how we treat one another.Every single one of us is fighting our own battles in real life. Whether it is stress, health issues, or personal struggles, the real world is heavy enough. We all come to OpenSim for the exact same reason: to escape the pressures of real life, to build, to create, and to enjoy a game with others.Why must we log in here just to face judgment and attacks? It makes no sense to bring real-world toxicity into a space meant for relief.To the people who constantly want to bash, judge, and tear others down, I say this: look in the mirror. Some of the loudest critics have closets that are blacker and dirtier than anyone else's. Before you start knocking on someone else's door to point out their flaws, you need to own up to your own faults first. None of us are perfect.Please, let's keep this drama off the OpenSim pages. This community should be a sanctuary, not a battleground. I can only imagine what some of you write on your personal Facebook pages if this is how you treat people in a virtual escape. Let’s remember why we are all here, respect each other's battles, and leave the negativity at the door.

Is the mudslinging match against AMV starting now?
@Yana Dakota
You wanted to leave Open Sim, after all.
And you’ve turned off the reply function, too.
Are you afraid of reading something negative about yourself?

Between light and darkness,
between destruction and life,
I look to the sky and wonder:
Why does this world need both?
....................................................................
Zwischen Licht und Dunkelheit,
zwischen Zerstörung und Leben
blicke ich zum Himmel und frage:
Warum braucht diese Welt beides?

The Dichotarians and the Fall of Atlantis

It is said that at the beginning of all things, there were no opposites.

There was no up and no down, no light and no darkness, no inside and no outside. Things simply were as they were, and it would never have occurred to anyone to separate them. The Dichotarians later called this era the Time of the One.

But memories are strange things. They change when told too often.

On their planet, the Time of the One had long been forgotten.

The planet itself had fallen ill. Its seas had receded, leaving behind black crusts upon their shores. The forests still stood, yet their leaves no longer stirred in the wind. Even the wind seemed to have grown weary.

Deep underground, the ancient fires rumbled.

The cities of the Dichotarians had once been magnificent. They had built towers that reached into the clouds and gardens where the flowers glowed at night. But eventually, they had begun to divide their world.

At first, they divided only things.

They said: "This belongs to me, and that belongs to you."

Then they divided thoughts.

"This is right; that is wrong."

Then they divided people.

Some were one way; others were different.

And finally, they even divided time.

There was a past that was revered and a future that was feared.

Amidst all these divisions, the space in between grew ever smaller.

No one remembered when it had begun. Perhaps no one had started it at all. Perhaps the separation had come slowly, like a shadow creeping across a meadow at dusk.

But one day, an old Dichotarian child noticed that the sun on their planet shone upon only one half of the city.

He asked his father:

"Why is the other half dark?" The father looked out and said:

“Because it doesn’t belong there.”

The child asked:

“Who decided that?”

The father did not answer.

Many years later, no one remembered that conversation anymore.

But the planet remembered.

And one day, it began to die.

The Dichotarians knew they could not stay. They built a great ship, though no one knew exactly where it was to fly. It was not a ship made of metal. It was built from the memories of their people.

They placed within it images of their cities, the voices of their dead, the seeds of their plants, and the stories of their grandmothers.

They even took a handful of earth with them.

“So that we know where we come from,” said an old woman.

On the day of departure, the sky was red.

A thousand Dichotarians boarded the ship.

No one waved back.

For behind them, there was nothing left to wave to.

The ship rose into the sky and vanished among the stars.

It flew through regions where the stars were positioned differently than in their old books. It flew through clouds of blue dust and past vast, silent worlds.

Sometimes the travelers believed they would never arrive anywhere.

Then Atlantis appeared.

At first, they saw only a golden shimmer.

Then islands.

Then towers.

Then the sea.

And finally, the city itself.

Atlantis lay upon seven large islands, connected by bridges of white stone. Waterways wound through the streets. Trees with silver leaves stood in the gardens, and at night, small lights floated above the canals.

The Dichotarians had never seen anything so beautiful.

“Perhaps,” said one of them, “this is the place we have been seeking.”

When the Atlanteans spotted the strange ship in the sky, they did not take to the streets with weapons.

They went to the gates. The Queen of Atlantis stood there and looked up.

Beside her stood a little girl.

"Who are they?" the girl asked.

The Queen replied:

"People who have lost their home."

"May they come in?"

The Queen smiled.

"If we do not help them, who will?"

And so, the gates were opened.

The Dichotarians stepped off their ship.

They were exhausted, hungry, and filled with fear.

The Atlanteans gave them water.

They gave them bread.

They gave them clothing.

They showed them houses where no one lived anymore.

And for the first time in a long while, the Dichotarians slept without waiting for the earth beneath them to shatter.

The first few years were wonderful.

The two peoples shared their stories with one another.

The Atlanteans learned the Dichotarians' songs.

The Dichotarians learned the Atlanteans' dances.

Together, they built new houses.

They planted the seeds the Dichotarians had brought from their destroyed planet.

Soon, flowers bloomed in Atlantis that no one had ever seen before.

The people called them star-flowers.

They opened their blossoms only at night, shimmering like tiny moons.

It seemed as though the world itself had decided that everything would turn out well.

But the world had decided nothing.

Worlds do not make decisions.

It is always people who make decisions.

And eventually, someone began to say:

"We ought to make a distinction."

At first, it was merely a sensible question.

The Dichotarians had different habits than the Atlanteans. They spoke differently. They ate different foods. They thought differently about property, family, and time.

At first, this was interesting.

Then, it became uncomfortable.

"Where we come from, we do things differently," said a Dichotarian.

"Where we come from, we do them better," replied an Atlantean.

At first, both sides laughed about it.

But the laughter grew rarer.

It did not take long for the old words to resurface.

Right.

Wrong.

Ours.

Yours.

Good.

Bad.

The Dichotarians had believed they had left their old world behind.

But they had only left their bodies behind.

Their old ideas had traveled with them.

Those ideas had remained invisible as long as everyone was struggling together to survive.

Now that they were prospering, they once again had time to distinguish themselves from one another.

The initial disputes were minor.

A market stall was moved.

A law was altered.

A school was to be run according to Atlantean customs.

The Dichotarians protested.

Then, they founded their own school.

At first, the Atlanteans did not mind.

But soon, there were two schools.

Two councils.

Two festivals.

Two ways of telling history.

And finally, two stories about who Atlantis actually belonged to.

The children were the first to notice that something was amiss.

They had played together.

Now, they were told whom they were allowed to play with.

One day, an Atlantean girl asked her father:

"Why am I not allowed to play with Lira anymore?"

"Because she is a Dichotarian."

"But she’s Lira."

Her father remained silent. The child could no longer make sense of the world.

Perhaps that was the moment when Atlantis began to shatter.

Not when the towers collapsed.

Not when the sea arrived.

But within a small child’s heart—one that could not grasp why a person should suddenly be considered less human simply because they had been born different.

The years passed.

The city grew richer.

And, at the same time, poorer.

Richer in walls.

Poorer in trust.

The Dichotarians built a great temple to their ancient gods.

Beside it, the Atlanteans erected a temple to their own.

Soon, the two temples stood facing one another like two opinions carved in stone.

No one remembered anymore that they had once formed a single garden together.

Then came the dispute over the star-flowers.

The Dichotarians claimed the flowers had sprung from their seeds and therefore belonged to them.

The Atlanteans argued that they had grown on Atlantean soil and thus belonged to Atlantis.

It was a ridiculous quarrel.

But humanity has an astonishing knack for turning ridiculous things into catastrophes.

There was arguing.

There was shouting.

There were threats.

And eventually, the first weapons were drawn.

That night, the earth shook.

No one knew if the tremor was linked to the dispute.

But the ancient priests of Atlantis knew that something had happened.

They went to the sea.

There, they saw fissures in the water.

The sea receded.

Far.

Very far.

Fish lay thrashing on the seabed.

People ran to the coast.

"What is happening?"

No one answered.

Then came the wave.

It was so high that even the tallest towers of Atlantis seemed small beside it.

It crashed over the outer islands.

Bridges snapped.

Palaces shattered. Temples vanished.

The water surged into the streets.

People ran, but there was nowhere left to flee.

And amidst this chaos, something strange happened.

The Atlanteans and the Dichotarians stopped fighting.

They began to save one another.

A Dichotarian pulled an elderly Atlantean from the water.

An Atlantean woman carried a stranger’s child on her shoulders.

Two men who had fought each other the day before held fast a door behind which people sought shelter.

For a brief moment, the old division vanished.

Not because someone had issued a rule.

Not because a king had commanded it.

But because the water washed away all differences.

Atlantis sank.

When the sun rose in the morning, only a few towers still jutted out of the sea.

The survivors stood on a hill.

They were silent.

Beside them lay a small box.

Inside was soil from the Dichotarians' destroyed planet.

A child picked up the box.

It opened it.

The soil was still moist.

And something was stirring amidst the grains.

A tiny green shoot.

"What is that?" someone asked.

The child smiled.

"A possibility."

No one knew what it meant by that.

Perhaps it meant a new plant.

Perhaps a new world.

Perhaps just the thought

...that the end of a story is not necessarily the end of everything.

The survivors set out on their journey.

They walked for a long time.

They crossed mountains and passed through forests.

They carried their few belongings on their backs.

But something had changed.

They no longer called themselves Dichotarians and Atlanteans.

They had become human.

Not perfect.

Not redeemed.

Not suddenly wise.

They still argued.

They made mistakes.

They were jealous, fearful, and sometimes unfair.

But when someone said:

"We must choose. Either this or that."

Then someone would remember Atlantis.

And sometimes, another would reply:

"Perhaps there is something in between."

Many years later, they found a place where the land was fertile.

There, they planted the soil from the small box.

From it, a tree grew.

No one knew what kind of tree it was.

Its roots reached deep.

Its branches spread wide.

And when the wind brushed through its leaves, it sounded as if two voices were speaking to one another.

One high.

One low.

But if one listened long enough, one realized that they were not two voices at all.

It was a single voice.

It had simply learned to hold more than one truth at the same time.

The people later named the tree the Tree of Beginnings.

And when the children asked where it had come from, the elders told them of a lost planet.

Of a people seeking a home.

Of a city that had welcomed strangers.

Of a paradise that had shattered under the weight of its own contradictions.

And of Atlantis, which sank so that a new story could begin.

But the wisest elders told of something else, too.

They said:

"Never forget that Atlantis did not die because of the flood." “Then what caused it?” the children asked.

The elders looked toward the tree.

“It died the moment its inhabitants believed they had to choose between one another.”

The children did not always understand this.

But that did not matter.

Some truths take a long time to take root.

And deep beneath the sea, amidst the ruins of the ancient city, a small seed stirred in the mud one day.

No one saw it.

No one heard it.

Yet perhaps, right where Atlantis had ended, something new was already beginning to grow.

Die Dichotarier und der Untergang von Atlantis

Es heißt, dass es am Anfang aller Dinge keine Gegensätze gab.

Es gab kein Oben und kein Unten, kein Hell und kein Dunkel, kein Innen und kein Außen. Die Dinge waren einfach, wie sie waren, und niemand wäre auf den Gedanken gekommen, sie voneinander zu trennen. Die Dichotarier nannten diese Zeit später die Zeit des Einen.

Doch Erinnerungen sind merkwürdige Wesen. Sie verändern sich, wenn man sie zu oft erzählt.

Auf ihrem Planeten war die Zeit des Einen längst vergessen.

Der Planet selbst war krank geworden. Seine Meere hatten sich zurückgezogen und an ihren Ufern schwarze Krusten hinterlassen. Die Wälder standen noch, aber ihre Blätter bewegten sich nicht mehr im Wind. Selbst der Wind schien müde geworden zu sein.

Unter der Erde bebten die alten Feuer.

Die Städte der Dichotarier waren einst prächtig gewesen. Sie hatten Türme gebaut, die bis in die Wolken reichten, und Gärten, in denen die Blumen nachts leuchteten. Doch irgendwann hatten sie begonnen, ihre Welt zu teilen.

Zuerst teilten sie nur die Dinge.

Sie sagten: Das gehört mir und das gehört dir.

Dann teilten sie die Gedanken.

Das ist richtig, jenes ist falsch.

Dann teilten sie die Menschen.

Die einen waren so, die anderen anders.

Und schließlich teilten sie sogar die Zeit.

Es gab eine Vergangenheit, die man verehrte, und eine Zukunft, die man fürchtete.

Zwischen all diesen Teilungen wurde das Dazwischen immer kleiner.

Niemand wusste mehr, wann es begonnen hatte. Vielleicht hatte überhaupt niemand damit begonnen. Vielleicht war die Trennung langsam gekommen, wie ein Schatten, der sich am Abend über eine Wiese schiebt.

Doch eines Tages bemerkte ein altes Dichotarier-Kind, dass die Sonne auf seinem Planeten nur noch auf eine Hälfte der Stadt schien.

Es fragte seinen Vater:

„Warum ist die andere Hälfte dunkel?“

Der Vater sah hinaus und sagte:

„Weil sie dort nicht hingehört.“

Das Kind fragte:

„Wer hat das bestimmt?“

Der Vater antwortete nicht.

Viele Jahre später erinnerte sich niemand mehr an dieses Gespräch.

Aber der Planet erinnerte sich.

Und eines Tages begann er zu sterben.

Die Dichotarier wussten, dass sie nicht bleiben konnten. Sie bauten ein großes Schiff, obwohl niemand genau wusste, wohin es fliegen sollte. Es war kein Schiff aus Metall. Es war aus den Erinnerungen ihres Volkes gebaut.

Sie legten darin Bilder ihrer Städte ab, Stimmen ihrer Toten, Samen ihrer Pflanzen und Geschichten ihrer Großmütter.

Sie nahmen sogar eine Handvoll Erde mit.

„Damit wir wissen, woher wir kommen“, sagte eine alte Frau.

Am Tag der Abreise war der Himmel rot.

Tausend Dichotarier bestiegen das Schiff.

Niemand winkte zurück.

Denn hinter ihnen gab es nichts mehr, dem man hätte winken können.

Das Schiff stieg in den Himmel und verschwand zwischen den Sternen.

Es flog durch Gegenden, in denen die Sterne anders standen als in ihren alten Büchern. Es flog durch Wolken aus blauem Staub und an riesigen, lautlosen Welten vorbei.

Manchmal glaubten die Reisenden, sie würden niemals irgendwo ankommen.

Dann erschien Atlantis.

Zuerst sahen sie nur einen goldenen Schimmer.

Dann Inseln.

Dann Türme.

Dann das Meer.

Und schließlich die Stadt selbst.

Atlantis lag auf sieben großen Inseln, verbunden durch Brücken aus weißem Stein. Wasserläufe zogen sich durch die Straßen. In den Gärten standen Bäume mit silbernen Blättern, und nachts schwebten kleine Lichter über den Kanälen.

Die Dichotarier hatten noch nie etwas so Schönes gesehen.

„Vielleicht“, sagte einer von ihnen, „ist das der Ort, den wir gesucht haben.“

Als die Atlanten das fremde Schiff am Himmel entdeckten, gingen sie nicht mit Waffen auf die Straßen.

Sie gingen zu den Toren.

Die Königin von Atlantis stand dort und sah hinauf.

Neben ihr stand ein kleines Mädchen.

„Wer sind sie?“, fragte das Mädchen.

Die Königin antwortete:

„Menschen, die eine Heimat verloren haben.“

„Dürfen sie hereinkommen?“

Die Königin lächelte.

„Wenn wir ihnen nicht helfen, wer soll es dann tun?“

Und so wurden die Tore geöffnet.

Die Dichotarier stiegen aus ihrem Schiff.

Sie waren erschöpft, hungrig und voller Angst.

Die Atlanten gaben ihnen Wasser.

Sie gaben ihnen Brot.

Sie gaben ihnen Kleidung.

Sie zeigten ihnen Häuser, in denen niemand mehr wohnte.

Und zum ersten Mal seit langer Zeit schliefen die Dichotarier, ohne darauf zu warten, dass die Erde unter ihnen zerbrach.

Die ersten Jahre waren wunderbar.

Die beiden Völker erzählten einander ihre Geschichten.

Die Atlanten lernten die Lieder der Dichotarier.

Die Dichotarier lernten die Tänze der Atlanten.

Sie bauten gemeinsam neue Häuser.

Sie pflanzten die Samen, die die Dichotarier von ihrem zerstörten Planeten mitgebracht hatten.

Bald blühten in Atlantis Blumen, die niemand zuvor gesehen hatte.

Die Menschen nannten sie Sternenblumen.

Sie öffneten ihre Blüten nur nachts und schimmerten dann wie kleine Monde.

Es schien, als hätte die Welt selbst beschlossen, dass alles gut werden sollte.

Doch die Welt hatte nichts beschlossen.

Welten beschließen nichts.

Es sind immer die Menschen, die Entscheidungen treffen.

Und irgendwann begann jemand zu sagen:

„Wir sollten unterscheiden.“

Zunächst war es nur eine vernünftige Frage.

Die Dichotarier hatten andere Gewohnheiten als die Atlanten. Sie sprachen anders. Sie aßen andere Speisen. Sie dachten anders über Besitz, Familie und Zeit.

Das war zunächst interessant.

Dann wurde es unbequem.

„Bei uns macht man das anders“, sagte ein Dichotarier.

„Bei uns macht man es besser“, antwortete ein Atlante.

Noch lachten beide darüber.

Doch das Lachen wurde seltener.

Es dauerte nicht lange, bis die alten Worte wieder auftauchten.

Richtig.

Falsch.

Unser.

Euer.

Gut.

Schlecht.

Die Dichotarier hatten geglaubt, sie hätten ihre alte Welt hinter sich gelassen.

Aber sie hatten nur ihren Körper verlassen.

Ihre alten Vorstellungen waren mit ihnen gereist.

Sie waren unsichtbar gewesen, solange alle gemeinsam ums Überleben kämpften.

Nun, da es ihnen gut ging, hatten sie wieder Zeit, sich voneinander zu unterscheiden.

Die ersten Streitigkeiten waren klein.

Ein Marktstand wurde verschoben.

Ein Gesetz wurde verändert.

Eine Schule sollte nach atlantenischer Art geführt werden.

Die Dichotarier protestierten.

Dann gründeten sie ihre eigene Schule.

Die Atlanten fanden das zunächst nicht schlimm.

Doch bald gab es zwei Schulen.

Zwei Räte.

Zwei Feste.

Zwei Arten, die Geschichte zu erzählen.

Und schließlich zwei Geschichten darüber, wem Atlantis eigentlich gehörte.

Die Kinder bemerkten zuerst, dass etwas nicht stimmte.

Sie hatten gemeinsam gespielt.

Nun sagte man ihnen, mit wem sie spielen durften.

Ein atlantenisches Mädchen fragte eines Tages seinen Vater:

„Warum darf ich nicht mehr mit Lira spielen?“

„Weil sie eine Dichotarierin ist.“

„Aber sie ist doch Lira.“

Der Vater schwieg.

Das Kind verstand die Welt nicht mehr.

Vielleicht war das der Augenblick, in dem Atlantis zu zerbrechen begann.

Nicht als die Türme einstürzten.

Nicht als das Meer kam.

Sondern in einem kleinen Kinderherzen, das nicht verstehen konnte, warum ein Mensch plötzlich weniger Mensch sein sollte, nur weil er anders geboren worden war.

Die Jahre vergingen.

Die Stadt wurde reicher.

Und zugleich ärmer.

Reicher an Mauern.

Ärmer an Vertrauen.

Die Dichotarier bauten einen großen Tempel für ihre alten Götter.

Die Atlanten errichteten daneben einen Tempel für ihre eigenen.

Bald standen die beiden Tempel einander gegenüber wie zwei steinerne Meinungen.

Niemand wusste mehr, dass sie einst gemeinsam einen Garten gebildet hatten.

Dann kam der Streit um die Sternenblumen.

Die Dichotarier behaupteten, die Blumen seien aus ihren Samen entstanden und gehörten deshalb ihnen.

Die Atlanten sagten, sie seien auf atlantenischer Erde gewachsen und gehörten deshalb Atlantis.

Es war ein lächerlicher Streit.

Aber die Menschheit hat eine erstaunliche Begabung dafür, aus lächerlichen Dingen Katastrophen zu machen.

Man stritt.

Man schrie.

Man drohte.

Und irgendwann wurden die ersten Waffen hervorgeholt.

In dieser Nacht bebte die Erde.

Niemand wusste, ob das Beben mit dem Streit zusammenhing.

Aber die alten Priester von Atlantis wussten, dass etwas geschehen war.

Sie gingen zum Meer.

Dort sahen sie Risse im Wasser.

Das Meer zog sich zurück.

Weit.

Sehr weit.

Die Fische lagen zappelnd auf dem Meeresboden.

Die Menschen rannten an die Küste.

„Was geschieht?“

Niemand antwortete.

Dann kam die Welle.

Sie war so hoch, dass selbst die höchsten Türme von Atlantis klein dagegen wirkten.

Sie stürzte über die äußeren Inseln.

Brücken brachen.

Paläste zerbarsten.

Tempel verschwanden.

Das Wasser drang in die Straßen.

Menschen liefen davon, aber es gab keinen Ort mehr, an den sie fliehen konnten.

Und mitten in diesem Chaos geschah etwas Merkwürdiges.

Die Atlanten und die Dichotarier hörten auf zu streiten.

Sie begannen einander zu retten.

Ein Dichotarier zog einen alten Atlanten aus dem Wasser.

Eine Atlantenfrau trug ein fremdes Kind auf ihren Schultern.

Zwei Männer, die sich am Tag zuvor noch bekämpft hatten, hielten gemeinsam eine Tür fest, hinter der Menschen Schutz suchten.

Für kurze Zeit war die alte Trennung verschwunden.

Nicht weil jemand eine Regel erlassen hatte.

Nicht weil ein König es befohlen hatte.

Sondern weil das Wasser alle Unterschiede fortspülte.

Atlantis versank.

Als am Morgen die Sonne aufging, ragten nur noch wenige Türme aus dem Meer.

Die Überlebenden standen auf einem Hügel.

Sie waren schweigend.

Neben ihnen lag eine kleine Kiste.

Darin befand sich die Erde vom zerstörten Planeten der Dichotarier.

Ein Kind nahm die Kiste.

Es öffnete sie.

Die Erde war noch feucht.

Und zwischen den Körnern bewegte sich etwas.

Ein winziger grüner Trieb.

„Was ist das?“, fragte jemand.

Das Kind lächelte.

„Eine Möglichkeit.“

Niemand wusste, was es damit meinte.

Vielleicht meinte es eine neue Pflanze.

Vielleicht eine neue Welt.

Vielleicht nur den Gedanken, dass das Ende einer Geschichte nicht unbedingt das Ende von allem ist.

Die Überlebenden machten sich auf den Weg.

Sie gingen lange.

Sie gingen über Berge und durch Wälder.

Sie trugen ihre wenigen Habseligkeiten auf dem Rücken.

Doch etwas hatte sich verändert.

Sie nannten sich nicht mehr Dichotarier und Atlanten.

Sie waren Menschen geworden.

Nicht vollkommen.

Nicht erlöst.

Nicht plötzlich klug.

Sie stritten weiterhin.

Sie machten Fehler.

Sie waren eifersüchtig, ängstlich und manchmal ungerecht.

Aber wenn einer sagte:

„Wir müssen uns entscheiden. Entweder dies oder das.“

Dann erinnerte sich jemand an Atlantis.

Und manchmal antwortete ein anderer:

„Vielleicht gibt es noch etwas dazwischen.“

Viele Jahre später fanden sie einen Ort, an dem das Land fruchtbar war.

Dort pflanzten sie die Erde aus der kleinen Kiste ein.

Aus ihr wuchs ein Baum.

Niemand wusste, welche Art Baum es war.

Seine Wurzeln reichten tief.

Seine Zweige breiteten sich weit aus.

Und wenn der Wind durch seine Blätter strich, klang es, als würden zwei Stimmen miteinander sprechen.

Eine helle.

Eine dunkle.

Doch wenn man lange genug zuhörte, merkte man, dass es gar nicht zwei Stimmen waren.

Es war eine einzige Stimme.

Nur hatte sie gelernt, mehr als eine Wahrheit gleichzeitig zu tragen.

Die Menschen nannten den Baum später den Baum des Anfangs.

Und wenn die Kinder fragten, woher er gekommen sei, erzählten die Alten ihnen von einem verlorenen Planeten.

Von einem Volk, das eine Heimat suchte.

Von einer Stadt, die Fremde aufgenommen hatte.

Von einem Paradies, das an seinen eigenen Gegensätzen zerbrochen war.

Und von Atlantis, das unterging, damit eine neue Geschichte beginnen konnte.

Doch die klügsten Alten erzählten noch etwas anderes.

Sie sagten:

„Vergesst niemals, dass Atlantis nicht an der Flut gestorben ist.“

„Woran dann?“, fragten die Kinder.

Die Alten sahen zum Baum.

„Es starb in dem Augenblick, in dem seine Bewohner glaubten, sie müssten zwischeneinander wählen.“

Die Kinder verstanden das nicht immer.

Aber das war nicht schlimm.

Manche Wahrheiten brauchen lange, bevor sie Wurzeln schlagen.

Und tief unter dem Meer, zwischen den Ruinen der alten Stadt, bewegte sich eines Tages ein kleines Samenkorn im Schlamm.

Niemand sah es.

Niemand hörte es.

Doch vielleicht begann dort, wo Atlantis aufgehört hatte, bereits wieder etwas Neues zu wachsen.

Brazilian DJ Tom Southmoor - a very talented RL & Virtual World - Multi Genre DJ, a lover of Disco Funk Soul from the 70's and 80's and other musical styles such as: Smooth Jazz, R&B, New Jack Swing, House Music (Soulful, Funky, Disco, Latin, Deep). His favorites are the earlier decades when musicians really made magic with their instruments
Catch DJ Tom Tonight @ Alternate Metaverse party stage! 4-6pm!
hop://alternatemetaverse.com:8002/Alternate%20Metaverse/34...

You’re Invited to Party !
✨Let’s join together this Saturday at ESC for an unforgettable afternoon of amazing music and dancing under the sky.
📅 When: Today (Saturday) from 2:00 PM to 6:00 PM
📍 Where: ESC
We look forward to seeing you there! Bring your best moves and your favorite

hop://mk3.org:5002/ESC/132/41/41

A Beautiful Poster, and an Uncomfortable Reality

I recently saw a beautiful promotional message describing Alternate Metaverse as a place of family, community, friendship, belonging and acceptance.It is a beautiful message, and for a long time, I genuinely believed in that idea too.I spent a considerable amount of time in AMV. I was not simply a visitor passing through. I gave my time, creativity, energy and commitment. I worked as staff, supported people, built, contributed ideas and genuinely believed that I was part of a community.

There were many wonderful moments, lovely people and experiences that I will never deny or forget. But my experience also had another side, one that eventually left me disappointed and hurt. I am not interested in creating drama or convincing anyone to dislike AMV. Some people may genuinely love it there, and I sincerely hope they continue to have a positive experience. Everyone is entitled to their own experience.

But this was mine.

I will not rewrite my history simply because honesty makes people uncomfortable. I know what I experienced, I know what I gave, and I know why I eventually walked away.A community can speak about family, belonging, friendship and acceptance, but words alone are easy. A beautiful welcome sign is easy to create. Creating a place where people genuinely feel safe, valued and accepted, including when their experiences are not always positive, is something else entirely.

I am not asking anyone to agree with me. I am simply refusing to pretend that my experience was something other than what it was.There is room for beautiful memories and difficult truths to exist at the same time.

This is mine.

My experience. My truth. My story.

Really a GRID unlike any other, spent many years between different grids, and the experience I have had in AMV has overall been amazing, which made me want to stay and be a part of it all, do come explore and check it out, it is really worth a visit, if you are looking for a new home give AMV a chance, come in with a fresh perspective!

DJ Zale - DarkHeart City @ Unicock Club Party
Region: Darkheart Archipelago

Details:
DJ Zale Tonight - Midnight-2am SLT/Opensim Grid Time
DarkHearty City @ Main Unicock Club Dance Floor
Featuring Music from Zale and DJ Nino - 2hrs of amazing tunes and new songs before released.

hop://alternatemetaverse.com:8002/Darkheart%20Archipelago/...

Icky Thump Live from the UK at 1pm PDT/Grid Time
Bringing his music to us all
With his guitar and Foot base, and his smokey voice ,
Bringing us some Acoustic Blues Tunes
Come join him,
Everybody is welcome
hop://alternatemetaverse.com:8002/Alternate%20Metaverse/36...

🚨 SPONTANEOUS PARTY ALERT 🚨

DJ LIGHT RAY HAS ENTERED THE BUILDING.
We have absolutely no idea who authorised this.
We’re pretty sure nobody booked it.
And frankly… it’s far too late to stop it now. 😂

🎧 TECHNO
🏙️ CCC ROOFTOPS
🔥 BAD DECISIONS
🕚 11 AM GRID TIME

Come for the music.
Stay because you can no longer remember where your shoes went.

DJ LIGHT RAY — turning perfectly normal mornings into questionable life choices since approximately 11 AM. 🤣

📍 Ocean38
hop://grid.virtual-worlds.zone:8002/ocean38/122/108/22

NO PLAN. NO WARNING. JUST TECHNO. 🔥🎧

New items are available in the PBR Menshop starting tomorrow, the second building will be stocked, it’s a lot of work and requires patience. Don’t fight against PBR, it will prevail anyway. Have a nice weekend! ----Picture KI----

When it comes to details Fred and Deb's Virunga leaves nothing to the imagination. I come by to leave a note or gift for Deb in her mailbox at Rosamond Halsey Carr house. Rosamond Halsey Carr (1912-2006) had a flower ranch in Rwanda,. After the genocide of Hutus by Tutsi, when 8 people were killed in her gardens, she turned her flower sheds in the Imbabazi Orphanage. She was 84.

Since that time Roz and her staff have cared for more than 400 children. Since Roz's passing in 2006, the orphanage is under the direction of Partners in Conservation and currently cares for more than 100 orphans.

Roz also wrote the book "Land of a Thousand Hills: My Life in Rwanda," with her niece, Ann Howard Halsey, chronicling her love affair with one of the world's most beautiful and tormented regions. She is also the 2004 recipient of the Volvo for Life Award.

For more information, please view http://www.rwandaproject.org/

Image is not Roz house the house is located here:
Mailbox is located here> outworldz.com:9000/Outworldz%20Virunga/658/153/21
Deb would love to hear from you, please drop by and leave a note!

The Fleetwood Beach Lagoon

The Fleetwood Beach Lagoon offers a peaceful contrast to the more technical and industrial areas of the region.

Surrounded by water, shoreline and the surrounding landscape, it is a place where visitors can slow down, enjoy the scenery and take in the special atmosphere of Fleetwood Beach.

The lagoon is designed as a natural part of the region and connects the maritime character of Fleetwood Beach with its distinctive Steampunk setting. The result is an area that invites both exploration and relaxation.

From here, visitors can enjoy interesting views across other parts of the sim, including buildings, technical constructions and nearby attractions.

For anyone who would like to experience the quieter side of Fleetwood Beach, the lagoon is an ideal place to stop for a while and simply enjoy the surroundings.

Always Evolving

Many more ideas are still hidden away in the mind of Mike Fleetwood, waiting to be brought to life.

Fleetwood Beach is therefore not a finished project, but a region that is constantly evolving. New buildings, technical gadgets, vehicles, interactive systems and unusual attractions are gradually being created and integrated into the world of Fleetwood Beach.

That is why a visit is always worthwhile. Those who return later will often discover new details, try out new features or experience areas that did not even exist during their previous visit.

Fleetwood Beach is always changing – and there is always something new to discover and try out.