Everyone knew that beauty was a trap.

Everyone knew that beauty was a trap but no one ever talked about it.

The perfect prison, you see, is that which one makes in and of themselves and in being or becoming so enamoured and as though hypnotically entranced by the idea as an abstraction that itself comes to acquire some magical or narcotic property of utter and abject endorphin-like dependency; the circle is closed, the gated door slams shut and whatever hopes of freedom or subjective self-determination one ever possessed quite simply vanish.

The perfect trap is one that you never see because it is a pure fantasy that does not exist and no one wants to be free of this game of meanings we play with and as ourselves, through which we seek to possess that extra significance, meaning, possession or symbolic truth and emotional security because to be free from this would be to acknowledge that this intricate game and labyrinth of complex self-obsession is all any of us ever were from the beginning.

The means by and through which we seek freedom are so often also the chains that bind us. Once we come to understand this, we can actually do something about it.

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