Jul. 15, 2004,00:23
Like A Prison
And after his or her 20 years, when dues have been paid, and when they thought it would never happen, freedom. And can you imagine this world, not 20 years ago? I was barely five years of age. But now. Freedom. Is that what it is? Or do they miss that cell. That regimentary life. Being told what to do and where to go, day after day, decade after decade. Eat, sleep, think. Freedom.
I ran to my prison. The comfort and security. Not thinking. And it was selfish. I wake up each day, in my cell. I make myself eat, because I have to eat. I drink some water, because I have to drink. I am alone, but I am not bitter. Not yet. The thought of meeting people used to bother me. The thought of going out, still does not register the way it does to you, maybe. I am one of these men. They live in my apartment complex. I call it "The Place Old Men Come To Die". I have only seen one pass on though. His name was Jack Palmer. Or something to that effect. He looked past 70. He always said "Hello young feller", when I saw him watering the grass in the mornings, on my way to work. And I would always greet him with a smile, and a solid Hello, back. He wore glasses, and a hat, and his age, on a worn down face. About 7 months ago, he disappeared. Someone else moved in. Two apartments away lives a school teacher, Phillip. The few times we talked, he told me he heard me playing my guitar, and said he always wanted to learn. He told me to come over any time. He was lonely and he wanted me to visit him. He looks 60. He gave me his phone number, but now he is gone to his real home in Idaho, for the summer. Phillip told me that one night, 8 months ago, there was an ambulance. And they took poor Jack to the hospital. They told him that smoking was killing him. The man was already dead. Jack called Phillip not long after, and asked him to run to the store to get him some cigarettes. Marlboro Reds. So Phillip, being the kind man that he is, obliged. And after that, Phillip never saw Jack again. That's what he told me one morning on my stoop, a few months ago. This is my home. This is where I live. I feel too young to be here. Too young to be alone like they are. But we have the same look in our eyes. It's that same look I see when I go out. I see it in people of all walks. We try, earnestly, to forget about it. To entertain ourselves. Fill our mind with movies and books and music and living and babies and education. All to forget our singularity. The truth is, when we die, we all die alone. We were born alone, and we die alone.
I don't want to live alone anymore. I don't feel unloved, or depressed. I don't hurt like I used to. I am not running away anymore. I am ready to change. There is a new chapter in my life. It's coming, and its coming soon. I wish I could tell you what it is. I wish you all could see it.
I really used to believe that I would die at a young age. Now I think I am being punished. And right now, I feel very selfish being locked up here. In my cell. And I want out. Before its too late. Because soon, it will get too comfortable here. It will get easier and easier. I will adjust and change. Adapt. This half will evolve to miserable whole. When you are in a real prison, you don't have a choice. I put myself here. And I will let myself out.
I ran to my prison. The comfort and security. Not thinking. And it was selfish. I wake up each day, in my cell. I make myself eat, because I have to eat. I drink some water, because I have to drink. I am alone, but I am not bitter. Not yet. The thought of meeting people used to bother me. The thought of going out, still does not register the way it does to you, maybe. I am one of these men. They live in my apartment complex. I call it "The Place Old Men Come To Die". I have only seen one pass on though. His name was Jack Palmer. Or something to that effect. He looked past 70. He always said "Hello young feller", when I saw him watering the grass in the mornings, on my way to work. And I would always greet him with a smile, and a solid Hello, back. He wore glasses, and a hat, and his age, on a worn down face. About 7 months ago, he disappeared. Someone else moved in. Two apartments away lives a school teacher, Phillip. The few times we talked, he told me he heard me playing my guitar, and said he always wanted to learn. He told me to come over any time. He was lonely and he wanted me to visit him. He looks 60. He gave me his phone number, but now he is gone to his real home in Idaho, for the summer. Phillip told me that one night, 8 months ago, there was an ambulance. And they took poor Jack to the hospital. They told him that smoking was killing him. The man was already dead. Jack called Phillip not long after, and asked him to run to the store to get him some cigarettes. Marlboro Reds. So Phillip, being the kind man that he is, obliged. And after that, Phillip never saw Jack again. That's what he told me one morning on my stoop, a few months ago. This is my home. This is where I live. I feel too young to be here. Too young to be alone like they are. But we have the same look in our eyes. It's that same look I see when I go out. I see it in people of all walks. We try, earnestly, to forget about it. To entertain ourselves. Fill our mind with movies and books and music and living and babies and education. All to forget our singularity. The truth is, when we die, we all die alone. We were born alone, and we die alone.
I don't want to live alone anymore. I don't feel unloved, or depressed. I don't hurt like I used to. I am not running away anymore. I am ready to change. There is a new chapter in my life. It's coming, and its coming soon. I wish I could tell you what it is. I wish you all could see it.
I really used to believe that I would die at a young age. Now I think I am being punished. And right now, I feel very selfish being locked up here. In my cell. And I want out. Before its too late. Because soon, it will get too comfortable here. It will get easier and easier. I will adjust and change. Adapt. This half will evolve to miserable whole. When you are in a real prison, you don't have a choice. I put myself here. And I will let myself out.