The Prisoner

One day I woke up, and I found myself in a prison.

This prison has no walls, no bars, and I can move freely. Yet I know the walls and bars are there.

I cannot see the prison guards, yet I know they are there. "Guards" is perhaps the wrong term... Creators of the system? Builders of the walls and bars? I'm not sure what to call them.

I have everything I need. And yet... it is finely regulated. With little imaginary rectangles of paper. I can see an example of these, they do not exist. But I know they are there. Let's call these the rectangles of regulation, just for fun.

My fellow inmates: some are aware of the prison, most are not. Some are happy to go with the flow, some are happy to play their own games, some know that the prison exists, and try to tell others.

WAKE UP! YOU'RE IN A PRISON!

MINE!

YOU'RE DELUSIONAL!

HEY THERE HONEY!

IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!

YOU MUST BE PUNISHED!

TAKE IT LIKE A MAN!

And yet...

I created the prison.

Myself.

Me.

I can't see the prison walls... because they don't exist.

I can't see the prison guards... because they don't exist.

I can't see the inmates... because they don't exist.

I can't see the rectangles of regulation... because they don't exist.

Why am I here? What exists? What doesn't exist?

If I tell you there's a prison, but there's not, am I contributing to the myth of the prison?

If you tell me there's a prison, and it is real to you, am I a liar if I tell you it's not there?

Sometimes it's nice to be angry.

Sometimes it's nice to accept.

And sometimes it's nice to let go.

So what is real?

Freedom.

And love.

That's it.