Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage.
Who’s to blame? The preverbal switch-a-roo, so to say. I like to think that it’s others, but it’s usually me.
I’m the one luring myself in, one bread crumb at a time, into my prison and locking the door. Indignantly, I stand, banging on the bars, demanding that someone let me out.
All the while, I’m holding the keys.
Humbling, once I recognize who clutches my freedom, sweating profusely to keep it hidden.
Seemingly ridiculous and, yet, so common, and all of us do it.
Fear, resentment, shame clang the doors the loudest. We dive into our cells adamant that if it wasn’t for this or that we wouldn’t have to do what we’re doing.
They’re making us behave this way. If they’d change, we’d be free.
Yeah, right. How about I release myself. I do have choices, you know.
And yet knowing that and acting on that knowledge are two different things.
Space and time are essential. Solid minutes, infused with deep honesty, to reflect and consider the facts of a situation.
Willingness is imperative too. Without a willingness to act, no change occurs.
No unlocking of the prison cell happens.
No freedom restores our deeply entrenched dysfunction.
We might as well make a comfortable nest in our one-person cell, put a movie on, and distract ourselves from our self-imposed suffering.
We might be there for a while.
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