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Chained. That's how he feels. 
Chained in so many ways. 
There are places he wants to go, people he wants to meet, things he wants to experience..... the want is deep. So deep that it's literally burning him inside. 
He wants so badly to explore..... but he can't. He's chained.
Chained by restrictions which he had put upon himself. 

A prisoner. That's what he is. 
Even though he is not contained behind high chain linked fences, sharp barbed wires and tall iron gates, he is imprisoned by fear; living in anxiety of the unknown. 

Paranoia becomes his shadow. He is convinced that people are out to destroy him, the same way as when his son was kidnapped from his custody by his ex-wife and taken out of the country with the help of people who had a vendetta against him. He's convinced that they see him as a piece of meat to feast on.
Paranoia prevents him from exploring outside of his safely arranged routine and comfort zone. He is trapped. 
Trapped in a web of illusion where internal death is inevitable. 

Culture shock. The best description he felt facing the wicked slander about him that had gone viral. 
He was caught off guard, unprepared and lost. 
A fifty two year old artist, thrown in a jungle of beasts. 
He was petrified. 
Predator and prey, aggressor or victim. That was the game they played. 

Emotional and mental torture loomed in every corner. 
Unimaginable torture that was beyond his expectation. 
He ran. 
He ran as fast and as far as he could.... but in that jungle, far is not nearly far enough.

He did not feel safe. 
He feared for his life. 
He needed to find an escape and he needed to find it fast. 

He sought help at the authorities; a place where he felt he would be protected. But he was wrong. 
Instead of taking pity on him, he was sent away, dismissed like his fear for his life was nothing more than his overactive imagination. 

He retreats with his defeat into his small rented room with broken windows. That was his first taste of living in a box. 
8 feet wide by 10 feet long. 
It wasn't much but at least he could breathe again. 
And in that box, he found a new best friend; solitude. 

Days and weeks flew by like fleeting clouds. 
Next to solitude, Time became his close friend. 
Time would sit loyally beside him, keeping him company as they watched moments slowly passing by. 
He endured a type of isolation that never left him, even now, well past the twenty years since he lost his son. 

He could have gone back into the jungle and continued his fight if he wanted. But he chose to stay in his box with his loyal friend, solitude. 
He was reluctant to face his fears. 
But for how long? 
How long can he hide away? 
He knew he would have to man up eventually.
He knew he would have to face himself and his harsh reality. 

Duty. That's what it had boiled down to. 
A sense of duty to claim his life back. He owed that much to himself. 
That duty became more important than the fear he was living in. 

Purpose. He had to find a purpose in life. 
He had to break the monotony. 
Spending 24 hours in the box daily was stagnating his spirit. 
The cracked mirror lost all meaning to him. 
His bed became his coffin. 
Death was calling him by name. 

Even his own breath taunted him in his loneliness. 
He was hungry. 
Hungry for love, for friends and for his family. 
Most of all, he was hungry for justice to be served. 
Hungry with a passion that consumed the minutes and days, months and years. 
He was desperate. 

Then out of the blue, someone very dear to him entered his room, by way of a dream. In a gentle and loving move, she placed her finger beneath his chin and he lifted his eyes to meet hers. 

“Time to move on”, she said. "Time to live again."

He looked around his room, his cocoon. Nothing was out of place. 
He shivered. 
Is it possible? 
Can he move on? 
Live again? 
He wasn't sure. 
He was afraid. 
His fear was like an overprotective mother restraining him from reaching out towards his potential.

The dream, it compelled him in ways that he never thought possible. It was healing and transforming. He couldn't believe that his beloved late mother would reach down into his darkness and try to make an effort to liberate him. What was even more compelling was the fact that she seemed to understand his suffering. 
To this day he has no idea what drove her to reach out to him the way she did. But he truly thank God that she did. 

The day came where he was ready to man up and face his reality. 
He was scared. 
He was still suffering from anxiety. 
But he had found a purpose to live. 
He refuse to continue living in the box, even figuratively in his heart, mind or spirit. 
He was done with it. 

He is still chained in so many ways. But he is slowly learning to break free from the shackles. It's a slow process that sometimes frustrates him to no end. As long as he keeps putting one foot in front of the other, as long as he continues to man up, he is confident he will be fine.