There is a screen on my eyes, like the one on my window.

When you first look out a window, you don’t see the screen. You focus on what’s on the other side of the screen - the trees, the snow, the cars trundling by… It’s only if the light catches some of the metal filaments and that small, telltale gleam distracts you with its unconformity that the screen is noticed. If you try to focus on the screen itself, your eyes begin to strain. It’s not natural to focus on something so subtle or evolutionarily inconsequential. But once you notice the screen, you can never again enjoy the same view out the window. The slight pattern of the screen is annoyingly apparent, reminding your brain that there is a barrier between you and the outside world. Even when you try to squeeze your eyeball right up close to the tiny gridwork and by peering out through one of the miniscule holes you gain an unobscured line of sight, you can sense the limitation. You accept this view, however, because it is the clearest one of reality you have. It’s only when you go outside that you realize what you were missing… There are real cars and trees and an unobscured, snowing sky.

Now how do I escape from the screen on my eyes, my mind?