The Prisoner

A cell is dull

It's just big enough to give your thoughts a place to expel themselves
by filling the space, then there isn't any left in which to keep your heart
your dignity, or your pride.

Many of the men in here cried on their first few nights in the pen,
I didn't.
Others feel they have been wrongfully convicted,
I wasn't.

The redundant pattern of bricks on the wall is the only thing that keeps me contained.
If I just had a window, my mind would soar, my thoughts would have a place to escape from this  place. My ticker would then have a place to exist. As it stands, I am a man with out a heart.

This place will suck the soul straight out your ears. Silence is something under appreciated by the whole of society, but we in here, grossly over appreciate it. Sometimes I smash my head against the brick to feel something other than boredom. Others read, but I can't and no one in here is willing to teach you anything.

How is it that a fish surrounded by all other kinds of fish, can still feel isolated? When you keep them in separate tanks. He can look at the other fish, but he can't interact with them. In a way it's worse than being in the hole, where you're kept in darkness for twenty hours of every day and don't talk to anyone. I prefer it there to here. These men don't accept me for what I am. You'd think these cons would stick together, but I'm a loner among criminals, the lowly sludge that fills the space between the tile on the floor.

Yet, I find a strange peace about it all. For in the cell there is nothing else for me to fear but death itself. When men are cage-fed and told to shit in the toilet on the wall, it is quite easy to resign oneself to the depravity of a fruitless existence. It is calming to the nerves, to know that I never again will feel the touch of a woman. It isn't worth trying to relive all my experiences on the outside. There is nothing but the remainder of life, to be squandered and wasted in this tepid fish tank; and there is beauty in that.

It is true that I will never accomplish a single feat of excellence in my life - that is unless you count my infamous crime, which I do not - but where does that separate me from most other men who have ever lived? I have been institutionalized, but that's only a delicate way of saying that my choices are no longer my own, and I think that is a good thing. I am relieved to no longer have to live by my own will. I find that eccentric peace skittering across the brick walls of my cell.

I know the administration would like for this interview to inspire me to strive for parole. I see it differently, which is something I have always been good at, for I never wish to leave this place, wretched though it may be. And in some perverted way, I think they know it. I only agreed to meet with you so that it might buy me a few favors.

What is it you want?

I just want that window.