It was only in the state of exhaustion that things finally dawned on him.   He realized that over time, he has unconsciously built four walls around himself.  There was a door but it was bolted.  There were windows too, but they automatically closed at the slightest hint of an onlooker.  The roof was flat and made of concrete.

A pity, for he has paid lip service to the world that he was ready.  And now he asks himself if he really was ready. He does not know the answer.  No matter how hard he tries, nothing comes to mind.  Again, he was reminded that thinking will do him no good. Because he can't even think.

The paint outside the walls are pretty. A magnificent facade, indeed.  The glass windows are one-way mirrors.  The perceivers from the outside world can only see themselves, not the one inside the house.

The doors to the house have been shut for a long time now. They once were open, but a long-forgotten storm has forced it shut. And they never opened again.

Looking outside through the one-way mirrors cum glass windows, he sees droves of onlookers. Admiration, Infatuation, even Love - all these he can see in their eyes. Many of those outside wanted to come in.  Begged to come in. 

He ignores them.

He looks around the walls he built around himself. He does not see beauty.  The interior is empty. The walls are unpainted - exposing the piles of hollow blocks.  Although lighting is insufficient, it was never dark inside.

He retreats into one corner of the room, in tears, secretly hoping that that someone will break in through those glass windows and paint the walls with him.