The eye was stained ruby red, and all things were seen by such a hue.

Men are not of one, single, psychology but rather of many, jumbled together. There is no whole to speak of, no identity which truly fits within a single name and body. There is thrust upon each silo of flesh, blood and bone a multitude of people, nameless but full of relative and proportional verve. They are each fed purely by the tendencies of a man, inherent by nature or ingrained by heritage. A center of gravity, a permanent interest in any manner or of any fashion, begets a little man who is born especially to relate the body, heart and mind to something of perceived value. Hundreds or thousands of such little men are fathomed and fashioned from infancy to adolescence, and it these which run amok a man’s life forever more.

Memory itself is split and fragmented between the ranks of these little men. One, tailored and tasked to enjoy, for example, emotions of flustered irritation or jittery excitement, will alone have complete access to memories specific to its particular life. Let us put this in another way. Anger remembers itself. A thought of a certain variety will associate in isolation, where ideas directly connected to it will only reappear to our attention once that exact thought emerges once again. Everything is compartmentalized in our psychology, with memory stored and tucked away by virtue of these nearly innumerable divisions of little men. It is in such a light that we may understand sayings like, “a satiated man will not understand a hungry one, nor be expected to appreciate their plight.”

It would be very well and good if we could indulge in some intense paranoia and suspicion towards ourselves once in a while. Or better yet, quite often. It would help to not believe in our memory so strongly or to be so easily convinced by the associations in our heads or the feelings in our hearts. A man is too easily fooled by himself, sparked into motion in all sorts of ways simply because he cannot uproot old patterns, or at least pause them for awhile, in order to behave rationally and reasonably. As it stands in this very instant, a man will feel and think in one way in one moment and thereby possess only a limited aspect of his identity. His memory will be equally skewed, accessing incomplete parcels of the full content available within the bordered realm of his psychology.

So one will love his friend in one moment and in the next hate him. The hate will not be able to remember the love. A great number of good deeds will be forgotten or ignored, paving ground and placing attention only to what the new state deems important to highlight and emphasize. One group of inner little men will shout, scream and hoot their lungs out, deafening and hogging the room for attention. Little inner arguments or sensible dialogue could instead allow a complete and impartial opinion to be raised and reviewed. But no, the man’s psychology is by nature corrupt, where like the arbitrary and dangerous borders of the outer world of countries and continents, a man’s inner peace will always be undermined by the divisions of his identity.