We prize what lies on the inside of the membrane. We scorn what is on the outside (unless of course it can in some way serve the inside). Prize. Scorn. The membrane of the ego.
We cherish what we have laid claim to and secured for ourselves within the boundary. Our precious treasure. We disdain what lies on the outside as being worthless, unwanted. Cherish. Disdain. The all-important boundary of the self.
And what we prize turns into putrid slime. It turns into noxious filth, it turns into rotting garbage. It becomes corrupt, subject to entropy, subject to the forces that govern corruption, and so we prize a corpse. We cherish a sack of rank-smelling filth, and drag it around obsessively with us wherever we go. Notwithstanding the awkwardness and inconvenience. Notwithstanding the effort. Notwithstanding the anxiety that we might lose it. Notwithstanding the absurd pointlessness of the exercise.
And if anyone says anything bad about our treasure – boy are we upset!
We gloat over corruption. We despise what is fair and true. Gloat. Despise. The two sides of the same thing. The two sides of the dual mind.