Confinement Rituals / Temple of Control

Content Warning:   Themes of confinement, coercion, ritualised control, emotional distress, and oppressive power structures.

A proud tree. Ancient and Strong.

Surrounded by a tall wall. Not so ancient, but still as strong. Iron gates prevent, allow, control entry.

It reminds me of a church. Tall Walls. Towering Spire.

Only for some and not for all. A clear message. An imposition on the natural order of the landscape. Even within this landscape of control.

Defined as both sacred and exclusive. Words which should not sit together but often do. But who worships there?

Despite the tree at its centre it does not feel like a place for nature. For worship of nature. Spirits not allowed. They have not paid the fee. Who then? Bankers or landlords? Is it a place of worship for the farmer. As the farmer worships the land. The barren sea of grazing around it emphasises its otherness. Its wrongness.

The matriarch enclosed should stand proud amidst her family. Generations of offspring and relations. A network of love and support. Instead she stands alone. Constrained. Confined. Reserved only for a few, instead of spreading to serve the many.

The whole picture is one of control. Of aggression. Dominance.

Cows bow in deference to the temple. To the palace. A deference expected. Not given freely but taken. Assumed.

The sun bakes the sterile ocean before the gates. Yet within, there is only blackness. It should offer respite from the heat. Instead it feels menacing. A gateway to the unknown. Portal to hell.

Inside the roof is low. Oppressive. Raging in a storm which only ruffles the sea beyond, no longer connected to any source. The rage feels personal. Affronted by trespass. Rather than welcoming of love.

The darkness feels less complete on the inside.

The darkness feels less complete on the inside.

This is the way of control. They allow just enough light to maintain that most perfidious of beasts. Hope. Keeping up the delusion: you are not trapped, penned in, but a willing participant. Protected not separated. Preserved not prevented.

From inside you question the wall less. It is solid, traditional, always has it been essential to this place. But there is no second door. There is only the way back. No way through.

Circumnavigating the wall. If you miss your chance or are blocked by others round again you must go. Hoping the next time the gate will open. Next time freedom will come. But until then you must brave the storm, risk the beating branches, survive the disconnect from perspective.

If you miss enough chances at the exit you come to assume that the temple was the world. Confinement the safest option.

Only she can save you. She who is also trapped. She who can never escape. Has no agency to choose. Has she too forgotten freedom? Or does she stand knowing that she is timeless, that the things of man will fall. Casting her children to the wind. Hoping that they will find family in wildness.

I thank her. A prayer not for her controllers, her confiners, just her. I hope she remembers me Into a time when she is once again free. A time of community and connection beyond control.