Enter the World of Incarceration

It was a blank, that thing inside of him. It was lovelessness, by definition, something one cannot find in official dictionaries. He thought the tears he shed would fill it up, but the tears fell down to his feet, down the ground to sink beneath the earth; or else dry up in the air. It didn’t help.


He would wake up in the steamy morning, going straight to the kitchen not to really find today’s newspaper at his backdoor, nor to heat coffee, nor to wash his face, but to go out in the sunshine, letting it caress his face which he would later find despicable. Intimacy with nature was not what he wanted in life, because those who value it would more often than not catch themselves alone in their old age, too late. He didn’t study Philosophy to die alone, to sleep alone, eat alone after he cooked a wonderful dinner. At night, he had always recalled that as a young boy, he had pictured in detail what he wanted for a wife, a house, the number of children, and the breed of their dog. He would grapple in the dark, hoping to find a hand that would in response clutch his as he found it. But there was only the void, occupied by nothing but air, that he could grab on to. As he pitched himself to sleep, there was only the phantasm of dreams to embrace, the nature to love, and they would never leave him, unlike his childhood fantasies, unlike his desires.


In his sleep, he always sank below the sands, the water, and the depth of the forest. He never struggled. He never hankered for carnage, flesh and passion. He only desired communication with the elements, in his dreams. And in the elements, in their union, there was harmony, the kind he’d never find outside of him. Thus when he woke up, always, hunger resurged, and his body was hardly at ease.

END