Prophetic Remembrance of the White Room

I feel now that to touch pen to paper, to touch hands or any substance, is to destroy the concrete walls that protect. And yet, I feel I am no longer free to roam beyond my walls. I am surrounded and asked to surrender. They ask my rebellious spirit to die, as it surely will in their captivity. I feel I must destroy it myself, before their treacherous hands defile it. And yet, the need to survive is a strong one. The need to be accepted as I am, as strong. And yet, it becomes clearer everyday that this elusiveness does not transmit itself easily - if at all - to the maturity needed to survive in this dimension. I feel my will surrendering to the overwhelming reasons and rationalism I hear. They tell me it is time to quit running and playing games; I must become one of them. And in so doing, I must give up my freedom, my attachments to metaphysical concepts. And I do not understand. I am confused. I try to look from their perspective to see what I must do to please them and succeed. I must learn how to use the talents I am endowed with to become something special or at least useful within their domain. It is not easy, feeling so apart from what they consider reality. I am not supported in my thoughts, but tolerated. I am alone, yet unable to survive that way. I need to be accepted and understood, but I have met no one who has come from my place to theirs and survived unprejudiced. They have given up their heritage to survive. I cannot. But soon I feel I will not have much to say in such matters. My mind swirls in confusing allegiances and soon despair will drown me in its dark pool of no return, and I will become one of them. The time has come. I am at the focal point and cannot fight anymore - I do not know how. I surrender myself to a destiny I do not understand, and bequeath the remnants of a disillusioned spirit to the one who will uncover it some day.