my own little hell

Several years have passed since I have last been in contact with anyone. Alone and remorseful for all of the wrong deeds I have committed I exist; society’s judgement has condemned me. I am full of guilt; a shallow puddle of water is all that consoles me. Nothing but the moon’s subtle reflection emanates from within this puddle. Its solidarity matches mine in more ways than I can imagine. Its personified life seems to mirror mine. I can only hope that within this dull life I can somehow find happiness.
The stars have come out, gradually appearing behind the veil of clouds. Each light holds a faint hope that someday I will escape from this hell. Nothing has stopped me thus far from thinking these thoughts; in the beginning I had expected them to brainwash me, conforming me to their idealistic society. I no longer respect, nor appreciate them: did I ever?
A thatch hut is all that they have provided me with; well, wood to build a thatch hut. I had to hike this jungle-desert to find the thatch myself, in pouring rain. The day I arrived it didn’t stop, allowing me not a moment of sleep. The ceiling was dripping even before I got here. When I did, there was no human touch, no compassionate human touch.
As I lie awake, bare and alone, I always think. I have never once conceded to their beliefs that I am guilty; I am not, so why should I? It is already too late to gain sympathy, to return to the normal living of society; how could I even want to, after what they’ve done to me? I cannot forgive them. Damned and forgotten, I will pity none of them for whatever guilt may come of them, if they may be so humble as to receive it.
I think I am on an island; I haven’t been able to go all the way around yet, but I have climbed a treacherous mountain, punishing in itself, and looked all around me. There is nothing but black water, a morbid reminder that there is only one way to escape.
I haven’t seen anyone else on this great rock; maybe that’s why the water is so black; maybe I’ve been lucky. Occasionally I’ve heard a primal scream, late at night. Maybe that’s where the other prisoners went.
I think. I always think. There is nothing but my tortured thoughts to caress my being, deprived of living. This has happened to others before, and will in the future, all because the majority are different. Is this pain and suffering justified by what supposed crimes I and others like me have committed? When did this world turn against its own kin, for what reason? This future is not that far off; even today, it has begun. It is just a matter of time before it affects you.

By torch

talk to me; maybe I'll tell you everything