You know what cages us?


It squelches the life from you, it bolts you to the metal floor, it flogs you with barbed wire. It waits until you are low, and it whispers, greedily, hungrily, wet into your ear: not this time. Not for you.

It takes you by the neck and dangles you from the cliffs, it uses your body as a shield against the bullets of others, it brands itself upon you, audibly, until all you can do is yield. Yield. Completely yield.

No one will help you if you complain.

They may derive pleasure from your complaints, pleasure from the notion that much like them, also bolted to the floor, also covered in scars, you are imperfect. You, too, are being told: not this time. Not for you.

There is comfort in the notion of sharing our isolation.

But it is paradox.

If you complain, no one will help you.

You will fall into the chaos, into the earthquake, into the mountain. You will fall and think you are flying, much like the pilot who cannot see the ocean below her for the fog. There may be moments of clarity, but then the fog will sweep and consume you and you will find yourself swallowed by wave upon crushing wave.

There is comfort in clarity.

But it is temporary.

No one, if you complain, will help you.

What then is freedom? What then is independence? Are we to see and seem inside a dream within a dream, as Poe, or are we to release ourselves to the Soul of the World? Who is to crush our captor, to clip our chains, to brandish the balm upon our gaping wounds?

Who is to save us? If no one will help us, who is to save us?

You will help you if no one complains.

Stop putting yourself under the knife. Stop ending your own life. Stop subjecting yourself to personal doom and self-inflicted misery. Your complaints are the lead blankets which thrash you down to the ocean floor.

You will help you if no one complains.

For the cage is smaller than you think, and the lock is not as strong as you believe. The iron is weaker than you imagined, and the bars are more bendable than expected.

In fact, you even have the key. If you’d only open the palm of your hand and realize the object digging into your flesh is your salvation and not the source of your suffering.

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