Also, this is me after prelims: the box I am entrapped in teases me with mirages of possible futures, while the present only seizes me with an abject horror I can't quite explain. It's similar to the feeling of looking in the mirror, and finding your reflection surprisingly both familiar and unfamiliar, and the feeling is akin to that of the Uncanny. It's not scary and I'm not going mad, but it fills you with a sense of disquiet, sometimes even grief, because the past is gone and all you have is this, yourself. This metaphorical box does not occupy physical space, but it contains and constrains in very palpable ways.
(the painting is Head VI by Francis Bacon)
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