The Prisoner

The prisoner steps into the shower, washes the feet, the legs, the genitals; washes his armpits and chest and arms; washes his face and hair, then he turns the water off, then he steps out of the shower and dries himself, and puts on his clothes, and steps into his living room, and prays, O Lord, that he may one day be released from his prison (and here is a secret); that he may one day breathe free (and here is a mystery); that he shall always have something to put in his stomach; that he may be called one day out of his exile, and live as a free man in his own home country (O glory!); that he may be let out of his prison and go home (O might and wonder and power!); that he may live a free man with food in his stomach, and clothes on his back, and water to drink and wash with; for he is a prisoner in exile; he lives in a building with many other prisoners, a building in a city of prisoners, a city in a land of prisoners, all of whom long to be called out of their exile, to go back to their homelands, to live free with food for their stomachs and clothes on their backs; for the chill of this prisonland is bitter, and the heat of the summers is sweltering, and the prisoners have nothing to do with their time: they lift weights or do other exercise and read through the days, they spend their time in restaurants and bars through the nights; they no longer count the time, for each one has a life sentence, and the time is always passing into nothingness; they sit between the nothingness of their future in prison, and the nothingness of a similar past; and they watch the time slip through the frame of the present, and await the day when they shall be released and called back to their homelands, where they shall live free with good food for their stomachs and clothes for their backs; and so the prisoner prays, O Lord, that he may always have good things to eat, and good things to wear, and good water to drink and wash with; and that he may one day be released from the prison, and live in his homeland and breathe free; and after his prayer the prisoner looks out at the stars, at the same stars and same moon he knows lie over his free homeland; and he wonders in what direction his homeland lies (he has been here so long he has forgotten), and he realizes his homeland lies far away from here, away from all this corrosion and decay, away from this land of roaches and filth; and he wishes he could just fall down and die; and he knows that he can never die so long as he remains in this prison of corrosion and decay; he knows that he will simply grow older and more frail forever; for he is a prisoner here, and in exile; and he knows even by death he cannot escape; and after looking at the stars a good while he feels he must wash again, wash from him all the corrosion and decay that he has accumulated these moments, wash from him the filth that is constantly growing on him; and so he goes to his sink, and takes his soap, and he turns on his hot water, and he washes his forearms and underarms, and washes his face, and brushes his teeth; and he thinks of the great amount of corrosion and decay he has accumulated in just a few moments of looking at the stars (the same stars that lie over his free homeland), and he truly knows what an awful place is this prison; for here he sits as the moments go by, being filled every second with more corrosion and decay (and filth, and fungus), and he truly knows what an awful place is this prison, and how dangerous; and he locks his door at night, and yet doesn't feel safe

for the danger of the prison is constant; and he locks his car doors when he drives, and yet doesn't feel safe

for the danger of the prison is constant; and he keeps loaded guns in his apartment and car, and yet doesn't feel safe

for the danger of the prison is constant; and he carries with him a knife, and yet doesn't feel safe

for the danger of the prison is constant; and he lies awake at night with night terrors

for the danger of the prison is constant; and his very flesh may fail him and decay

for the danger of the prison is constant; and his very mind may crack and break

for the danger of the prison is constant; and thinking of this, the prisoner grows sleepy and he falls asleep; and he has a dream that flowers arrive to his door, with a note saying, "I am terribly sorry for your loss," and the prisoner doesn't know what this means, what he has lost; and soon another bouquet of flowers arrives, with the same note saying, "I am terribly sorry for your loss," and the prisoner still doesn't know what this means; and the flowers keep coming, so that they fill up his apartment, and they all have a note saying, "I am terribly sorry for your loss," though the prisoner doesn't know what this means; and the flowers start to rot, and their stench is unbearable; and roaches and worms make a home of the rotting flowers; and the prisoner in his dream grows terrified; and he realizes what he has lost; and the flowers keep coming, such that they fill up his apartment; and the prisoner awakes, mourning for what he has lost.

End