Complex, Erudite, and Parsimonious

One hundred and fifty two tiles across. Eleven rows up. Twenty-two feet from one wall to the other. The room is a shower room with a metal bench affixed to the wall. This is where the process begins. They placed me here as if I were cattle to be guided to the slaughter house. Here I wait. Time has no relevance, nothing to compare, no guidance. So I sit. I stare at the shower head. Standard industrial, no frills, no style. Just plain. Made so no one can make a final swing from it. I hear noises outside the metal door. Sight is denied me as the door is solid. I listen. Funny stories are bandied about. The weather is discussed. I am mentioned. So, I am placed here for holding. Holding. Sounds so comforting. Sounds like a mother that is holding her child's hand before crossing the street. Protecting. Is that what they are doing? Are they protecting me? Or are they protecting society? Society never needed protecting before, at least not from me. Thoughts begin to swirl. Meditation becomes a predominant desire as I am getting restless. I sit on the bench and search to what brought me here. The origins of the crime are meaningless. What led me to commit the crime? Meaningless. Psychological explanations spin the wheel and don't produce an answer. What is relevant is what to do now. Is separation from society the answer? Does rehabilitation truly enable a criminal to become a functional cog in society? What does the prisoner want? Does it matter?

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: Raindrops keep falling on my head

Advertisement