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Mood Box.

So he did it.
Trapped himself again.
Once within its grips,
it is all that exists.

There he goes.
So predictable.

Embracing that wretched
blind faith, that absolute,
unquestioning certitude
that all is as it seems.

That how he sees it,
feels this,
is what it all means.

This is how nightmares
trick us,
this is how we mistake
fantasy for reality,
interpretations
for the truth,
actors for the parts
they play.

Seduced, absorbed
in a state of mind,
amnesia immediately sets in
towards anything
save what lies
inside this mental box,
vacuum-packed
for freshness.

Just four walls, a ceiling
and a floor
and not a window
or doorway in evidence,
he thinks to himself, so
this clearly
represents the boundaries
of the universe.

He feels this way,
thinks these things,
perceives and remembers
in this fashion,
and it seems so stable,
solid, self-evident
and irreversible.

All hope seems gone.
He can scarcely
remember what it felt
like to have it.

Now pinching
himself black and blue:
welts worth
the awakening.

He remembers.
Like a bolt from the blue.
He is more than this.
Everything, everyone is.

The world is so
much bigger
than these walls.
Blind belief in his moods:
it never ceases
to ensnare him.

Nothing here is real.
Break on out of here.

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