Isolation is to be stuck in a cage. A cage made of bars. The bars are spaced perfectly apart, so that from any given angle, the opposite side of the cage looks just large enough to squeeze out of. Freedom is just a tight squeeze away, all you need to do is step over to the other side and work your way out. But you can't. It's a petty illusion meant to give you a false hope, so whoever is looking onto your cage can be amused by you chasing the exit. And suddenly, as you cut off circulation to your lower half trying to squeeze through an impossibly small opening, you realize that where you were originally is just slightly wider than your current escape. But it's a lie, the illusion is all around, teasing the condemned.
The cage is the worst form of isolation. It's not because of the limitation of movement, it's because your senses tell you what it's like to be free. You can hear others chatting, your can see friendships forming out of raw air, sometimes, albeit rarely, you can even stretch your hand out and scrape your fingers on the sandpaper of others. The eyes play tricks on you. You see other people crawling from their cages, but you remain faithfully stuck inside yours. This gives you hope. Hope keeps you looking for your escape, but then you see that the others cages were just a single wall, or perhaps a few, and all they had to do was step around them. But your cage is made of six walls - Four on either side of you, a roof, and a floor. You're trapped, but can taste the freedom on your lips.
Hell they say, is what you make it. My hell, it seems, is to be trapped in this cage and watch life around me, while I can only grasp the bars and reach for hands that don't want me.
