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I lay here motionless, distant thoughts streaming through my mind. Apart from my occasional glances towards the rusty clock, hands slowly crawling clockwise, I am unattended; completely empty.
They tell you all sorts of stories about coming here, all sorts of little rumours and half-truths like the ones you’d have Chinese-whispered into your curious ears before moving to a new secondary school. Bog-washes, leg boxing, teachers with lizard tongues. None turn out to contain even traces of truth. But even decades ahead, when you’re told about some of the stories prison beholds, that little ounce of childish fear creeps back in. Contemplation twists these tales inside out. You ought to know better, but on reflection its probably best you didn’t.
After being sentenced I really didn’t want to find out about life on the other side of the bars, I didn’t want to self-indoctrinate myself. Gradually, though, as days of dread and fright drifted by, I couldn’t contain myself. Knowing what was inside wasn’t just something I wanted, but something I needed. Then when you cross the line into your new habitat, it turns out 99% of what you read or heard before entering this sick, twisted place was accurate, and despite being half prepared for it you completely fall to pieces.
It’s like a disease, being in here. The immense pressure on your physical well-being isn’t the biggest fear behind these bars. It’s your head. Every time you awake, opening your eyes to be met with mere bars of light lashes at your soul. Every time the iron chains on your cell door rattle in tormenting tones as guards keep a watchful eye on you incinerates another part of your ever-diminishing mental state. Every second you gaze into the familiar, storybook patterns of brickwork on your containing walls will fracture your heart just a little more.
Between these walls its no holds barred. Your emotions erode; your soul is scarred.
Your compiled library of snapshots, images and instant clips that you remember from way back will haunt your days. Situations that on the outside needed no analysis will suddenly blow themselves out of all proportions, like spraying foam out of a can and watching as it expands. These little memories uncontrollably flirt before your very eyes; you’re stuck in yet another world, but how many worlds are there now? There’s out there, there’s in here, and there’s in your head. Which ones should you trust? You’ll never know again.
What if I had done this differently, what if I hadn’t left there at all? What if I’d never been born? How did this, that and that happen? Blood, drugs, tears, pain…
Then you’re told that your release into the real world is just weeks away
Suddenly the hands on that clock start to rotate faster and faster.
They tell you all sorts of stories about coming here, all sorts of little rumours and half-truths like the ones you’d have Chinese-whispered into your curious ears before moving to a new secondary school. Bog-washes, leg boxing, teachers with lizard tongues. None turn out to contain even traces of truth. But even decades ahead, when you’re told about some of the stories prison beholds, that little ounce of childish fear creeps back in. Contemplation twists these tales inside out. You ought to know better, but on reflection its probably best you didn’t.
After being sentenced I really didn’t want to find out about life on the other side of the bars, I didn’t want to self-indoctrinate myself. Gradually, though, as days of dread and fright drifted by, I couldn’t contain myself. Knowing what was inside wasn’t just something I wanted, but something I needed. Then when you cross the line into your new habitat, it turns out 99% of what you read or heard before entering this sick, twisted place was accurate, and despite being half prepared for it you completely fall to pieces.
It’s like a disease, being in here. The immense pressure on your physical well-being isn’t the biggest fear behind these bars. It’s your head. Every time you awake, opening your eyes to be met with mere bars of light lashes at your soul. Every time the iron chains on your cell door rattle in tormenting tones as guards keep a watchful eye on you incinerates another part of your ever-diminishing mental state. Every second you gaze into the familiar, storybook patterns of brickwork on your containing walls will fracture your heart just a little more.
Between these walls its no holds barred. Your emotions erode; your soul is scarred.
Your compiled library of snapshots, images and instant clips that you remember from way back will haunt your days. Situations that on the outside needed no analysis will suddenly blow themselves out of all proportions, like spraying foam out of a can and watching as it expands. These little memories uncontrollably flirt before your very eyes; you’re stuck in yet another world, but how many worlds are there now? There’s out there, there’s in here, and there’s in your head. Which ones should you trust? You’ll never know again.
What if I had done this differently, what if I hadn’t left there at all? What if I’d never been born? How did this, that and that happen? Blood, drugs, tears, pain…
Then you’re told that your release into the real world is just weeks away
Suddenly the hands on that clock start to rotate faster and faster.
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Perfectly fitting the subject matter, no twists or suprises this time, no bounce it is dreary and is exactly the way it should be.
It sounds like a monologue of someone who has been drained of life, i can hear the guy saying it in a monotone voice, i would have added a little more about being thrown back into the other world but it's still an excellent piece and well worth reading.
It sounds like a monologue of someone who has been drained of life, i can hear the guy saying it in a monotone voice, i would have added a little more about being thrown back into the other world but it's still an excellent piece and well worth reading.
I lay here motionless, distant thoughts streaming through my mind. Apart from my occasional glances towards the rusty clock, hands slowly crawling clockwise, I am unattended; completely empty.
They tell you all sorts of stories about coming here, all sorts of little rumours and half-truths like the ones you’d have Chinese-whispered into your curious ears before moving to a new secondary school. Bog-washes, leg boxing, teachers with lizard tongues. None turn out to contain even traces of truth. But even decades ahead, when you’re told about some of the stories prison beholds, that little ounce of childish fear creeps back in. Contemplation twists these tales inside out. You ought to know better, but on reflection its probably best you didn’t.
After being sentenced I really didn’t want to find out about life on the other side of the bars, I didn’t want to self-indoctrinate myself. Gradually, though, as days of dread and fright drifted by, I couldn’t contain myself. Knowing what was inside wasn’t just something I wanted, but something I needed. Then when you cross the line into your new habitat, it turns out 99% of what you read or heard before entering this sick, twisted place was accurate, and despite being half prepared for it you completely fall to pieces.
It’s like a disease, being in here. The immense pressure on your physical well-being isn’t the biggest fear behind these bars. It’s your head. Every time you awake, opening your eyes to be met with mere bars of light lashes at your soul. Every time the iron chains on your cell door rattle in tormenting tones as guards keep a watchful eye on you incinerates another part of your ever-diminishing mental state. Every second you gaze into the familiar, storybook patterns of brickwork on your containing walls will fracture your heart just a little more.
Between these walls its no holds barred. Your emotions erode; your soul is scarred.
Your compiled library of snapshots, images and instant clips that you remember from way back will haunt your days. Situations that on the outside needed no analysis will suddenly blow themselves out of all proportions, like spraying foam out of a can and watching as it expands. These little memories uncontrollably flirt before your very eyes; you’re stuck in yet another world, but how many worlds are there now? There’s out there, there’s in here, and there’s in your head. Which ones should you trust? You’ll never know again.
What if I had done this differently, what if I hadn’t left there at all? What if I’d never been born? How did this, that and that happen? Blood, drugs, tears, pain…
Then you’re told that your release into the real world is just weeks away
Suddenly the hands on that clock start to rotate faster and faster.
They tell you all sorts of stories about coming here, all sorts of little rumours and half-truths like the ones you’d have Chinese-whispered into your curious ears before moving to a new secondary school. Bog-washes, leg boxing, teachers with lizard tongues. None turn out to contain even traces of truth. But even decades ahead, when you’re told about some of the stories prison beholds, that little ounce of childish fear creeps back in. Contemplation twists these tales inside out. You ought to know better, but on reflection its probably best you didn’t.
After being sentenced I really didn’t want to find out about life on the other side of the bars, I didn’t want to self-indoctrinate myself. Gradually, though, as days of dread and fright drifted by, I couldn’t contain myself. Knowing what was inside wasn’t just something I wanted, but something I needed. Then when you cross the line into your new habitat, it turns out 99% of what you read or heard before entering this sick, twisted place was accurate, and despite being half prepared for it you completely fall to pieces.
It’s like a disease, being in here. The immense pressure on your physical well-being isn’t the biggest fear behind these bars. It’s your head. Every time you awake, opening your eyes to be met with mere bars of light lashes at your soul. Every time the iron chains on your cell door rattle in tormenting tones as guards keep a watchful eye on you incinerates another part of your ever-diminishing mental state. Every second you gaze into the familiar, storybook patterns of brickwork on your containing walls will fracture your heart just a little more.
Between these walls its no holds barred. Your emotions erode; your soul is scarred.
Your compiled library of snapshots, images and instant clips that you remember from way back will haunt your days. Situations that on the outside needed no analysis will suddenly blow themselves out of all proportions, like spraying foam out of a can and watching as it expands. These little memories uncontrollably flirt before your very eyes; you’re stuck in yet another world, but how many worlds are there now? There’s out there, there’s in here, and there’s in your head. Which ones should you trust? You’ll never know again.
What if I had done this differently, what if I hadn’t left there at all? What if I’d never been born? How did this, that and that happen? Blood, drugs, tears, pain…
Then you’re told that your release into the real world is just weeks away
Suddenly the hands on that clock start to rotate faster and faster.
Page: