Novel Part 2

          Perhaps the greatest understanding of hope is in its blind adoption, even when one knows that an assured downfall awaits. I have found that hope, in its fragile form, does not concern itself as much with one's outcome, but with one's ability to confront that outcome when the dreaded hour approaches. Indeed, I no longer hope for an escape, but that I may someday accept its inconceivability, and admit that this dungeon will become my quiet grave. That I would have the strength to swallow the bitter truth that tells me I would simply disappear into the nothingness of my prison.

On this day, as any other, I eat my daily allowance of sustenance. As I chew, I regret every swallow, because now there will be one less for me to savor. I can never stop myself from consuming it swiftly, knowing that on the next day it will reappear, there again for me to devour. Yet, the food cannot give me the responses that I need. It does not make me feel steady, or more alert. It does the only thing it can do; sustain me in this quiet limbo, and nourish my captivity, providing neither the courage to face my struggles, or the strength to overcome them. The food itself will only weakly preserve me.

         Is my despair a mere illusion, a trick played on my mind, which only seeks to compensate for the harsh reality of my everlasting prison? Is my sorrow and fear preventing me from understanding that I can simply open the door to my cage, walk out, and never look back upon its darkness? Perhaps the belief that I am trapped transcends the actual question whether I truly am or not.

Therefore, every morning, I walk about and study my entrapment, to confirm the certainty that I am indeed caged beyond all reasonable doubt. My legs are stiff from the cold, and my back tightens with pain with every step I take. They remind me that although I am able to achingly walk about my prison, I can never walk beyond it and truly stretch my legs. Even as my dungeon seems endless before my eyes, I am restrained by its limits; limits which seep hushed despair into my mind, and simultaneously prevent me from a simple stroll under a broad sky.

There is not much to inspect. This morning I am, as always, dulled by the stillness of my prison and its uninspiring actuality. Such feelings spiral me into emotions of misery and anguish. Yet, the morning is regularly brighter than the evening.

"Hello," I say out loud to no one. It is almost a shame to break the perfect silence with my croaky voice. The sound dies slowly, as it reverberates throughout the tall walls, and exits through the unreachable window.

The sound of my pathetic voice is a confirmation of my wretched state. It groans under tiredness and torment, a burden that was long ago placed on my weary shoulders, while my knees buckled underneath with weakness. My voice is a true indication of my distress; hearing it scratchily escape from the quiet unhappiness within me only adds to my sense of self-pity. Seemingly, it is something intangible and gone in an instant, but it turns into a harrowingly real phenomenon in my mind. It is slightly horrifying to hear oneself speak, to listen to words like they are spoken by someone else, only to realize it is your mind talking back at you. So even to utter a simple greeting is painful enough.

Perhaps I am glad that there is nothing more that can reflect an image of myself back at me. A mirror, sitting in the corner patiently, would reveal my sad appearance without fault, given there was enough light. As I stare back into my dispirited eyes, would I be able to recognize the gloominess there, and believe that it stemmed from there? Would I suppose that all my suffering sprouts from the host itself, the man who, considers himself the victim, finally understands his role as the perpetrator? Am I he who humbles himself as the innocent, only to learn of my true actions, those which place me among the guilty?

It is strange that I would think this. Even as I am somewhat certain of my blamelessness, I ponder other unconvincing, perhaps ridiculous, alternatives. My seclusion has indeed granted time to think, but also to overthink. I have speculated far from what would seem rational, only to realize that any irrationality I must first deliberate is my own.

So much as I grasp the condition of my prison clearly, I cannot uncover any ideas as to the simple reason why I am here. Indeed, while I can feverishly describe the construct of the walls, I cannot explain why they are there. Any such conjecture always leaves me with a dismal headache, and the blank sheet that frequents my mind returns.

As I stand here and think, I am fully aware of my capacity to complicate my self and my plight, and thus should not muse further, but return to my morning task.



Ah, the door. A silent threshold, barred from the outside, and unlike anything else in my prison, wooden with iron bolts. It is about my height, with no window or cracks anywhere to peek through. Sealed, like a rock that encloses a tomb, guarding it from the disturbances of the living. It condemns the dead to an eternal captivity, trapped in their burial place until the sun withers and dies, while those outside bask in that very same sun.

I sometimes wonder if that door is simply there for appearance; perhaps it cannot open and close as it should, but is instead forged into the walls. Indeed, it fits into the shape of the surrounding wall quite effortlessly. Perhaps it may be persuaded to join my side one day, instead of collaborating with the grey walls.

In the pale light of the early dawn, its simple but solid design is disheartening. I struggle not to imagine what is on the other side. A corridor maybe, filled with other rooms just like mine, so near to each other, yet isolated beyond hope. Maybe there are dozens of other prisoners like myself, each of them held in their own enclosure, wallowing in desperate lonesomeness. I could just be one amongst many, my grief overshadowed by a collective despair. Would I even be recognizable amongst the dozens? Why should I deserve the answers more than any of the rest? Why should I be saved and not them?

Again, a threatening blankness enters my mind that accompanies a slight headache. As I imagine what lies beyond the door (even with the conscious effort not to), I consider countless variants that, because of their seeming unreachable qualities, are both excitable and depressing at the same time. While I am moved by the possibility of other prisoners, they and I are hopelessly isolated from each other. So, although I can conceive their existence, they only exist in the shivering realm of my trembling mind, just as anything that could belong outside these walls. Perhaps because I can grasp the muffled notion of an outside world, I can never truly submit to the enclosure of my prison.

My thoughts return to the door. Its size would suggest a noisy entrance and exit, therefore I doubt that whoever enters my prison during the night passes through it. Any sound other then the rasping of my own breath, or the palpitation of my heart, I would quickly notice, even when I slumber. The general silence of my existence has made my ears sensitive. A silence that either brings about a sense of calm or despair.

So, knowing this, there must be another entrance hidden somewhere. Along the floor, maybe, or even through the shrouded ceiling. The depravity of my prison, however, cannot cover up so much as a small pebble. If there was another threshold, I would certainly have seen it by now. My daily routine of studying my surroundings has become redundant, but it has helped me commit its layout to memory. Wearing a blindfold, I could gauge the distance from each wall to the other, find the door, and point out the ray of sunlight streaking through the window, if the appropriate hour was at hand. Somehow, amidst its melancholy, I have been able to discern my prison as it is. A diligence that I sometimes find to be utterly futile will hopefully one day prove itself useful.