Spring-loaded doors slam shut Locked from the inside. 70, 80, 90 years each. Barreling forward Lost. Never content. An intrinsic need for something intangible. Just out of reach. Something less lonely than 7 billion people. Homesick, for a place unrecalled. Always on the tip of the tongue. A truth impossible to swallow: The idea of oneself is an oxymoron. How can souls collide, When experience is personal? When existing in boxes? When isolation, exception, denial Are ever present? Maintain the facade of togetherness Don't bring it up. Don't say a word. Some hope to build a tool strong enough to cut through springs. Others try to pick the lock. Kick down the door. But it’s useless. It cannot be opened. Not through strength, Pride, Or power. Some will forever have tunnel vision. They cannot look around. Doomed to never find the secret: It’s not a key at all. Beside the scratches, Stains, And chips in wood From attempts of brute There's something on the wall: A lightswitch. Flicked off, Pieces of the whole Gradually pulled from the darkness. A piece with thoughts, feelings, a name– But this is just a piece. Choose to trun it on, and the ego disappears. Touch. Sight. Emotion. Memory. Thought. You. Gone. A choice few can stand to ponder. To stop claiming ownership over this soul fragment. To release the hostage. To return this small piece of soul To the rightful owner; The collective. To end the search. Finally; Relief. Skin to skin will never substitute, Deep conversations or psychedelics Can't quite scratch the itch. The yearning to return to the whole, To live in harmony. It lives deep within each person. The realization; We are just one piece. Then, we understand This need To rejoin. To go home. We understand. To turn on the light Is not to kill the soul, But the ego That holds it back.