I forgot I had written this...

Just imagine that for one day, one hour, one second, you could let the walls fall. See everything with clarity, as it aches to be seen, turn around from the cave wall and look outside. See that everything, actually, is beautiful, even pain is beautiful, in the same way that the sadness of love without release makes you cry and smile simultaneously. This particular type of pain has been written and written about because of its beauty, and also because when something is so rare that you don’t know what else it can be called, then you call it beautiful. These walls that you keep around yourself, in which you barricade yourself, and keep to this confined space where organization prevails. There are organized compartments filled with insecurity and doubt—something you inherited from your family, you suppose, or maybe from generations of humanity. You expected these walls to create beauty. You kept an orange butterfly in a glass jar in the compartment next to the vase with the lily inside. These walls organized beauty, or attempted to organize it, and since when has anything beautiful happened to you because of, or even amidst, organization? Great, heart-shattering things happened in complete and utter CHAOS, when your hair is messed up and you had dirt on your feet, and you just didn’t give a shit because of the beauty you had found. But you build up these walls with square compartments in which you store, and continually add your “beautiful” things. You have an azalea bush in one, a piece of music in another, a copy of your favorite book in a third, and you point and say, “Look here, this is beauty, and I found it just where I expected it to be.” But maybe if you had the courage to lift your arms, press your palms against the walls, if you could watch the butterfly jar break as it crashes to the ground, hear the dissonant chords that result from the fall, like a broken piano, then life could become truly beautiful. Life would become chaos, you would probably cut your foot on the shards of glass left behind, there would be terrifying, disorienting chaos. But then you could just, be. You could find IT, what Dean Moriarty was looking for. You could smile big smiles and show yourself and fear would disappear. Then other things could find their way into your life, those people who wouldn’t be afraid to wade among the remains of your broken walls. And two people together unafraid—how wonderful, how different things could be if fear ceased to be an issue. You could see the horizon, finally “how strange that beauty exists beyond these four walls,” you would think. You would stop looking at your shoes, at the stationary earth below you, and begin to look outward, at the great, spiraling, buzzing earth.