Black Sand

The pitch black darkness felt like cold tar on my skin.  Pasted over my hear, over my eyes.  I could feel it seeping into my ears and my nose. My breath has to squeeze by just to escape my lungs. But I have company.  Heavy iron shackles clamped to my wrists and ankles.  They talk to me when I move, telling me to be quiet.
Roving about my day, I interact with people, I drive my car in traffic, stand in the line at the cashier, browse the isles at the mall.  But no one knows the prison I'm in.  Touch me and you will not feel the wet black tar soiling your hands, shine a light in my eyes and you will not see the depth of nothingness staring back at you.  Call my name and you will not hear the torment of a damned soul in hell screaming back at you.Your eyes will only see the face that I am obligated to show. Your ear will only hear the response of a pleasant and meek human being.  Your handshake will only confirm the warmth of a happy, normal, person.
This prison in my mind is limited to the walls of my skull but is vast like a thousand desserts.  Each link in the shackles weigh a hundred pounds each, with the other end dropping out of view no matter how much a walk along its length. 
This black cell with no cage only seduces one thought, "Is this my doing or is this doing, for me?" Unable to answer my own riddle, I can only ponder origin instead of purpose. My mind, no rescuer.  Chains but no key.  No walls but no path. Just a compressing cold darkness and a puzzle.