My Miserable Mansion

This human body and human mind feels like an undiscovered cell of a larger prison. I stumble forth in darkness to discover the edges of my abode. My cell is slightly stained by the past and almost big enough to contain the remains of a separated soul. This is where I live. In the self-suffocating cell. Although I cannot see the walls I know they are there. Shielding me from the collective suffering on the other side. I want to connect, but I cannot find the path out of my own pitiful misery. Swallowed by my ego’s desire to pick apart every little piece of my habitat, without paying any attention to what happens on the other side. All that matters is my space. My miserable mansion. It would not matter if it was a mansion surrounded by a multitude of habitats of different sizes, or a cell in a larger construction. I would be just as preoccupied with the contents and edges of my own residency, and equally ignorant of my surroundings no matter what the circumstances might be. Me, mine, my. That is all that really matters, isn’t it? If I redecorate than I will be better, more suitable, perhaps even fit in. My cell will be just like the other cells, perhaps the colors of its walls will shine a bit brighter, but never more than a slight alteration in its hue. An expansion or elimination of its walls is utterly unthinkable.