The Prisoner

The pain was a prison. The suffering, a dark cell. His cellmate was ignorance. Growing bigger, each day he was held.

His ignorance so large now, it takes up all of the space. Time, lost its meaning. Could not say when. No longer knowing what day it is (is it even day right now?), nor particularly caring. The small, cramped prison is all there is for this man. The pain is complete. His sentence was final.

A torturous, black tomb.

What the man did to get here, he could no longer recall. So innocent on arrival, the stay in this place has corrupted him. His clothes are in dirty tatters. Spirit in filthy shambles. A oozy layer of grime covers the whole of his skin. The cell is a foul place. Ignorance as his bunk-mate, it seeps into the man. Slowly rotting him out, within.

His voice long forgotten. Afraid to scare the visiting silence away. The walls covered in scratches; from when he first came. Counting off the days that his sentence remained. All the surface area filled long ago, the chiseled ticks could not last. Broken from the beginning, the tick-toking the failure of his primitive clock. Counting ticks for each day, but at night his clock never toked. Too noisy. Once started, the clock would surely never shut up.

Space was limited, at a premium. Unable to remember when exactly ignorance moved in. Or what it always there?
His little world all there is to him, a prisoner of his own self. The pain was complete.

He used to dream of escaping this personal hell.
The door long since opened, man’s afraid to leave the cell.


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