Staying Wistful

Darkness emits a comfort to me. In times of strife, worry, or complete mental undoing, all of it can be remedied through this masking of reality. My reality is unique in a way. I wake up to a room of arid, dry gray walls. The dimensions of the walls and ceiling are perfectly even and inside it is only myself, and a bed. Sound is nearly nonexistent in this prison, confined to the vibrations I create by moving around. Likewise, if I do nothing, the world reciprocates my ambition. Lacking is a peer or alternative member to create cause, to instill effect. It is me and me alone in this room. In some ways, I control every element of reality. There is no sound if I do not cause it, there is no taste if I do not taste it. This world is heliocentric and I am its sun. When I close my eyes, engulfing the world in darkness, it ceases to exist. I know nothing before this room and am unable to imagine a world after. 

I remain aggressively in the present, though at times my mind wanders. In the event I should ever want to leave, I cannot. Despite what may be assumed, this room has no door. No entrance, no exit. I know nothing outside this room. To leave would be akin to dying, a cyclopedic transition of what is familiar, to what is unknown. See in my room, I may be limited, but I have control. Control over when I am conscious and what I do. Furthermore, I know what I have. Everything about my situation is made obvious to me; the life I live may have hardship and suffering at times, but the world beyond may carry those attributes tenfold. The gamble of leaving what I know and committing to a world I don’t would be a fool’s bet. I am no fool. I am just content with my existence. Contentment is a virtue I intentionally implemented to bar myself from the temptation of this fool’s bet. 

There was a time contentment alluded me. The never-ending routine I took part in began to wane on me. My psyche, though drained, could not comprehend leaving, yet desired the satiation of curiosity. So I built a window in my room. For the first time in my existence, I could peek out and gaze at what lay outside the banal box. Colors flooded my senses, my eyes welcomed the beautiful display. What I saw was a green field, flush with healthy grass and a slight breeze. Sun rays pierced the sky and greeted me through the window. Scenically speaking, the view held nothing special. Anything this field had could be replicated within my box. Yet, it wasn’t the individual elements that planted such intrigue in me. The field looked endless; the horizon beckoned to be explored. My eyes lit up with emotions unfelt for many years: fascination, perseverance, exhilaration, the thrill of letting go of control and allowing the weight of the world to rest upon itself rather than carrying it out of fear. Sensory overload clouded my judgment and for a moment, the idea of leaving my box seemed enticing. I could build a door, I could get out. 

But I can’t. As with every emotion, with enough time my elation calmed down. My head returned to a level state of mind, and in caution, I tore down the window to return to my box undeterred. Although the world outside this room has potential, that potential means nothing. What lies beyond the hills I saw could be beauty or it could all be a ruse. No, I like my box where my judgment cannot be diluted by the endless sensations of the outside world. In here I may not have fascination, perseverance, exhilaration, or happiness, but I have security. In here I have no fear; I have no grief. And it is because I have no grief, that I have no joy. 

How do you reap a seed that has been planted? My mind ran rampant replaying the inspirations of beauty. The black void I could return to when I closed my eyes now filled with dreams and  colors of longing and I hated it. Longing brings joy, yet brings equal, if not more, pain. My goal, my purpose for existing is not to experience the most amount of pleasure or joy. When born, everyone’s mind is pure, uncorrupted. Every waking second spent indulging in anything deteriorates the mind further into corruption. People try to remedy this through alcohol or some other stimulant, but I know the truth. Stopping this decline is an unachievable end. The most anyone could ever do is slow down the descent by rejecting the wicked intrinsic to the world. I have done exactly this under the aegis of my insulated box. Unfortunately, outside influences have infiltrated my box and thus, my mind.

Now waking up to the arid gray walls ignited a feeling of discontentment. The parasite that had harvested in my mind had invoked memories of my life before the box.  My family, loved ones, and friends if they were here, the walls would come alive. Even their just being here would enliven the purposefully somber room. At what point does self-isolation become a prison? My mind began to unravel. The principles I held in such high esteem began to falter. Perhaps the nature of conservatism I had adopted was fundamentally flawed. Either that or the allure of the outside world had truly poisoned my mind. What is the point of living if not to live? The dichotomy of pain and pleasure is often portrayed as good and bad. But perhaps pain is needed. Not just as a means to access pleasure, but because pain plays a role in the human experience. Whatever experience I was having was not human. Isolating out of fear had nullified my mind. I looked down on those who use drugs to numb themselves, yet had done the same thing using isolation as my drug. It was time to dismantle the prison I built for myself to hide from the world. I look to the future in embracement of fear and any other emotion that might inflict me. The light in my soul had returned after many long nights and now I focus on staying wistful.