A collection of windows

The whole world and you and everything else,
Are mere tools and catalysts, like magnifying glasses,
To look into myself, my soul and that
which is within me.

To know it's good and evil,
It's beauty and ugliness,
It's noble and wicked intentions
In my eternal quest for the truth.

Obsessed with you, was I not?
Helpless against this obsession, was I not?
Against the daemon within me,
The daemon I was and
The daemon that it would make me,
Was I not?

That which was within me,
That which you could never
See or hear, feel or reach,
That which I must face and confront,
Make peace with alone.

And in this battle, in this war
I have come to realize that
Which had seemed to me as true,
Was but an illusion I had created
the daemon had created for me

For I was never obsessed with you
or anything else but my own self
My desires and wishes,
My heart and soul,
My hopes and wishes
and my pleasures and pains.

Such was my need to possess
and own myself, that which i hold
so dearly and selfishly.

For everything else is
just a mere collection of windows
to my soul on my long and tiring
journey towards myself,
the eternal truth.