Welcome to the house you’ve built, decorated with intricate objects that define who are you.
That painting on the wall — a little off colour, a little off balance.
The car parked outside — makes all those horrendous sounds.
Look at these clothes — if only the price tags remained intact.
Objects. Without them, I’m nothing.
Alone, you don’t even know what you are — who you are is simple, you’re a human being.
What you are, isn’t defined — you’ve carved this mask, continue to do so, after years of work hoping to reflect an image of perfection.
Beneath it, you’re vulnerable.
Without these things, you feel empty.
There is nothing that comes close, you’ll keep buying — I want more, you’ll say.
Keep on in this pursuit, it will never fulfil you.
Victorious, we emerge — not because of the objects we surround ourselves with, but rather the outlook we observe.
You fool, misguided, misplaced, somewhere along the way you too became an object.
An object of certainty, without any doubt.
An object of characterisation, without a moral code.
An object, and nothing but — no longer resembling the soul that resides within this portrayal of a body.