You're sitting cross-legged on the floor in a white room. And everything is white, the walls, the ceiling...
Where a door might have been there is only white, even in place of the door knob.
The glare is everywhere, cast from an opaque light fitting, dispearsing, washing everything a monochrome. When you stare at it long enough it turns green and the room fades to black and this lingers as you slowly blink and turn your head.
This is a meditative escape, this is a cell, a prism of light.
Above the hum of white noise you can hear things and in the glare you can see. This is from having your ipod ever wired to your ears, the TV on and staring at a computer screen. This is your brain's automatic memory kicking in, because it doesn't remember anything else. This will fade away if you let it, this will be replaced by something new.
Tell yourself: this is a meditative escape, this is my cell, my prism of light.
When you reformat a hard disk drive, delete the data, this is an exothermic reaction. What we need now is some heat, some energy.
Leave the paint brush on the drop cloth and dip your head in the tin of paint until you feel it wick through your eyebrows.
Dance to your own music, with the beat of a different drum. Twist and flail and writhe and whip. Keep the paint from your eyes until you are spent. Now lie down with the pain and be blinded by your art. What do you see?
This is a meditative escape, this is your cell, you are a prism of light.