OJ: In a Dark Place

Vacuum's killing void;
Where no word is ever heard;
All directions: space.
I sit in a dark place. A place unvisited, a forgotten corner of the world. So far am I from the living life, all thought of it is lobotomized from my mind. I am blank. The walls are blank. Blankness as far as the eye can see. The void within.

My hard heart gave me hard walls. My ruler a tyranny of metal. You can't scratch it or harm it in any way - and never ever pass through. But from it madness reeks. A choking madness without eyes or ears, every day the infuriating same. You may go mad, you may not - the walls don't care. All they care about is you never escape their boundaries.

I know every inch of the smooth metal walls, gliding my hand across from side to side. I pretend I'm the welder, sealing the cracks for future convicts unnamed. I wonder what went through his mind knowing he'd be entombing his fellow man. Did he care if justice had gone awry? Did he feel any guilt cashing his bloody paycheck? Anonymous ghosts are these ancient welders, having long forsaken me, living in their picket fence houses with laughing children.

The pillow too. I count the stitches in daily ritual, hoping - somehow - the number might change. If the number changes, then my universe is not so finite after all. One day they did! For a few fleeting, electric moments, I had hope - but dark terror descended once more on the recount. This is the micro world where I exist.

But what of the melodies in my heart? I can't find them to sing them. And if I did, who would hear? God would. But how horrible no human ear can I touch. To be cut off like this makes me the dumbest man alive...buried alive...with time standing still...

Once a month is the feast of the magazine. I brand it into my brain, reliving the images and the fonts of the letters; ads and articles the same. I look at the man with a smiling mug of beer and I ask: What would he think of me? Would he throw his beer in my face? Would his friends hate him if he did not? Or does he give quarter, refusing to speak ill, hearing only his own convictions? I would thank him for eternity if he did - then angry guilt comes home to roost, wrecking any tranquility found.

Who on earth carries sins such as mine? Crimes against humanity. A worm that will not die lives within me, eating me alive. I am powerless to stop it. When the I heard the man cry out for war I said, "No! Don't go! You don't know what it will do to your soul!" But I was ignored and shamed for speaking when it's my duty to suffer. In moments of weakness I worship the war, knowing then I won't be so alone. Knowing they will not be able to speak of their crimes and how it will warp their minds and their lives keeping it in. You see, heroes don't sin. And if there's one thing I know about, it's pretending to be a hero when you know you're not.

The biggest sin now is to breathe. Even to want to breathe is a crime. When it gets too much, I suspend the air from entering, appeasing the gods who want me both to live and to die. Then cold air rushes back in, mocking me and reminding me of my eternal plight. It's like being trapped in an endless underwater cave, swimming from air pocket to air pocket, never reaching the free air. Who chooses a fate such as this?

Sometimes I can't move when they enter my cell. I pull the blanket over my head, sitting cross legged and perfectly still. The emptiness comes and washes over me like a solar wind, and I hear pain's words upon the wind. Then I see faces appear out of the sun, asking me what I've done. How could you? they ask. Where is the hope? Then the faces turn ugly, and with every angry word a line creases their face in contortion. Will enough tears open the door to my cell?

I killed everything that I love. When all that you love dies, you die. What can this dead body do with its time left on earth? Any good at all? Preacher man comes to earn his pay, but his words are as empty as his eyes. He offers me to drink from his dry well - but maybe that's the plan, they hate me so. He doesn't understand anyway. I'm not looking to take, but to give. That is my true water. Hell comes not when you have no love received, it comes when no one cares for the love you have to give.