Oysters and cuttlefish

We open windows to the darkness only,
The eternal cold outside
I stare into my abyss of black night
and know that every wretched crevice is my own creation -
a powerful pit of fear, hatred, jealousy:
My own, unique insecurities brewing to form one twisted philter
which acts upon whomever I lay eyes on -
and realise, quite suddenly,
that there are more than three windows in life;
more than three philosophies, prison cells from which to stare;
and more than three glorious panaromas which remain forever locked by the ignoramity of the human soul.

Double glazing. Pah.
Insulate; isolate, cut off twice as much from the world.
When a nose is pressed against the panes' lifeless embrace,
and warm breath heats for one moment that which was frigid and unreal
the eyes burn through the crystal clear.
We all can see what's going on.
But your curdling scream does not pass beyond this barrier, insurmountable; unachievable thanks to ingenious design.
Humans deny humanity, and how can pane communicate pain?
There is something clearly wrong.

Sometimes, in the dark nights and early dusk with which Autumn descends, I crunch crisp leaves underfoot and stare through peoples' windows.
They sip their drinks and laugh of foolish people; fools who are nothing more than mannequins.
Inanimate they seem..so puppet-like, concealed safely by £16,000 of glazing that was never required in the first place.
These houses are but shops; not one original notion, every bland persona cut from the same moth-ridden cloth from of manufacture.
Use a dirty old rag, oiled beyond recognition. At least that would be honest of what it is.
Heat loss might be reduced, but heat is the source of passion.
What will happen to animus?
Will it just disappear?

So every now and then, just for fun, I smash windows in.
A red brick can works wonders, smashing arbitrary barriers which serve only to divide, minimise; save each other from the loving embrace of our fellow man and the awkwardness of every loving hug.
The scattered shards of untruth pierce the skin; a prick of blood oozes, and as a tear slowly falls, excrutiating pain is heard for the first time in our lives.
And we shout to each other, inexorably realising:
Who needs these windows?
Why build broken homes and continue to live in them?
The earth is our oyster; oysters are a part of us, inextricably linked by the stars, as we are all intertwined.
We are all one; everything you can see and more, and have so much potential.
We just need to destroy these bad parts of us, can't you see?
We must break down these unnecessary barriers.

And how I long to stroke the real you,
hold what you are as a gift, not an object,
and kiss what I no longer lust but love as dearly as a friend.
I think I'm just about there.

Let's keep smashing those windows.