Perfect Paradox

He is in a cave, gazing at shadows, unaware of the great veil lying within.

Men yearn to be better, be it for only a brief moment, or from an ache that runs throughout the entire day. In hindsight a thousand mistakes become clear. Yet when the arm of the clock hits its fateful mark and the ego hears the call of the audience, men are rarely in a position to act rightly. Society ensnares every man, with only the rarest of exceptions; too rare, in fact, to merit mentioning. It implants in each a microcosm of itself, a little society that rules the individual from the inside. Without this rooted mirror, filled with all of the nuances and subtleties of arbitrary right and wrong, real and fantastical, the hypnotic state of an individual man would fail to quell an instant inner rebellion.

Whole villages, towns, cities and countries live within him, echoing the same nonsense that begets incessant violence of every shade. Men are drunk for the simple reason that they only notice the one, outer world, and are completely absent to the inner one. So untrained and unaccustomed to look inside, when they finally do for a mere moment, they see nothing and assume the idea of it to be a complete charade. For they are unaware that, having never looked, one looks with no light to see. It is a perfect paradox, and like all true conundrums, the pill is difficult to swallow. How can a rich inner landscape, with such gravitas of detail, be so hidden from a man himself?


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