It's getting better, isn't it? I think so...so much so I can't even bear to look at the older stuff at the bottom! I worry at what shocking errors I will find...maybe it's better that way; signs of progression!
Monday, December 10, 2007
...inside
The rising wind roared and swooped, the brisk November weather rattled the branches, small cyclonic forces whipping leaves into eddies. The clouds shifted with a powerful grace ruling all below. Life was seemingly very active outside. Inside it was a very different scenario.
Resting his back against the wall the full extent of what life now was came home to roost. The dank grey square room stood motionless, noiseless, hopeless, not even a echo could be heard. He tapped his foot to generate something, anything to listen to. He gazed the ceiling searching for a difference, a colour, a texture or even the merest hint of a former coat of paint. Nothing. It was all the same. The floor, the walls, the numerous cracks — an abundance of little else of consequence.
It wasn't the solitary confinement which bothered him the most, he preferred quiet to the perennial tortuous questioning from new 'colleagues'. The comparison with the outside world which rankled the most. The difference that freedom and incarceration starkly highlighted so vividly. Even the phrase itself 'the outside world' itched and scratched at his conscience. His world was now tiny, the mind boggling maths of how much of the 'world' he had lost baffled him; he could walk every inch of this cell and still he would not begin to fathom the inches and miles out the 'outside world'. Nothing could prepare him for the loss of meaning and freedom.
Most other inmates would not be able to comprehend his own thinking. They would have someone to blame, a snitch, a grass, some other dumb shit loser accomplice, or the Law usually for having the audacity to even arrest them. Not this lag. He knew what he was doing in terms of committing his offences; his mistake wasn't stupidity it was over-confidence. The psyche of an untouchable mastermind. As such, he could not be bitter at his own downfall, unlike the other scrotes. They blamed the system and all that were a part of it; perennial man sized chips upon their ample shoulders and frowns to match. He felt it easier to consign himself to his lot and do his 'bird', but what he could not accept was that the real world went on without him, it no longer revolved around his stature and standing, which by the sheer nature of the removal of freedom was also hugely diminished. Now he felt stripped, isolated, empty and bitter — just with himself, not anyone else.
Earthly elements he formerly took for granted before now mocked and tormented. To feel a breeze, let alone the rampaging gale outside, would re-instate feelings of being part of life again. As the wind rose again he turned to touch the window and somehow feel the air outside his cell. Inside his heart felt the same stark coldness. He slumped to floor slowly, raised his knees, dropped his head on his forearms and silently wept.
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