Cell + 1
If nothing else, being held in the proprietary palm of unknown captors renders the contours of time smooth, and indefinable, and presses the national collection of geographic monuments to the dust of forgotten never to be found artifacts.
For most of my life, I would not have found this to be an endearing quality, but here in a corner that time overlooked; it is something of a relief. Why concern myself with days, weeks or even years when I’ve lost the ability to track them? Why impress upon myself the importance of a world that I cannot see?
I suppose I could begin to count the moments, but the tedious nature of this task lends itself to discard. Free of the need to chart my destination lacking journey, I can focus my mind on other things.
Unfortunately, this leads me back to the negatives of being caged. There is nothing of interest here. I do seem to be a little cleaner than I was, as if simply escaping the outside world somehow removed a film of filth from my skin. Was I simply sticking my legs from the base of a cage before, and walking it around like my own personal Bedrock Cadillac? At least now I can’t roam and prove the vast emptiness is exactly that.
Who am I kidding? There is no silver lining. I can’t even begin to explain what has happened. Perhaps, the weight of it all has finally flattened me. Stolen the muscles from my frame, and left me as a sigh harnessed to the wind to be carried wherever it may lead, casting off my will with indifference.
I’ve begun the gradually sudden process of giving up, but hey, admitting it is the first step to recovery, or so I seem to remember. So, I’ve got that going for me.
Since I have nothing but time, I’ll take a moment to recount how I came to have this here notebook, which is not the same one I’d kept before, as you may have noticed by the entries written in crayon. Simply stated, it is not near the quality of my former, but what is?
It could have been minutes, but something tells me it was closer to hours, after arriving in this cell when an experience I’d found before returned for an encore. At the wall, that is not a wall, of my cell there appeared a folded stack of cheap, thin paper suspended about waist high. Suddenly, it fell to the ground, where it lay for some time before I found the courage to approach it.
My memory, and who’s to say anything there can be relied upon, says it resembles a newspaper, minus the print. Just cheap paper, folded and stacked over its self in several sections, all tucked within an outer, slightly larger, creased sheet. There is no binding to hold it together.
I suppose it wouldn’t make sense if my notebook did not deteriorate at a parallel pace to the rest of the world.
At first, there was no writing instrument of any kind, but after searching my cell with growing frenzy and what was soon an overwhelming desperation, I watched as the green crayon this is written in rolled from nothingness to lay beside the newspaper void of news.
Lucky me.
I’m sorry, I will now quit for awhile. I wouldn’t want to wear my crayon to a thin slice of colored wax. What if no other comes to replace it?
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