#287: Prison
When I was locked up, I thought a lot about the dark. I know it sounds like an odd thing to say for someone who hasn't actually seen any light in two decades, but it's really not so strange when you think about it. I've come to associate the feeling of darkness with other things and in prison, it was like a feeling I just couldn't shake. Darkness is thick walls closing in on me, damp cool air that barely moves and a murky smell that belongs in deep caves. It's the feeling of being trapped and lost; bewildered because the rug has been pulled from under your feet. Not unlike how the physical darkness felt the first time around, I guess.
One thing the dark does is bring out the ghosts. I had entire conversations with my dad in my head, which is funny since he wasn't that much of a talker when he was alive. At first, I thought I was going nuts, but later, after I thought I'd lost Foggy too, I didn't even care. I knew my dad wasn't really there, but it helped to talk to him. I got to say many of the things I'd left unsaid, tell him about the life I'd hidden from him and the life I'd had after he was gone. Wherever he is, I hope he was really listening and I hope he understands. And I hope he can forgive me for some of the things I've done where I find it hard to forgive myself.
I don't think about prison much anymore. Sometimes, vivid scenes of the more intense moments come to me in my dreams, causing me to wake up gasping for air. But when the dream gives way to consciousness, the smell of fresh coffee and the light brush of a breeze through an open window, it doesn't feel so dark anymore. Even my messed up life has its lighter moments.
One thing the dark does is bring out the ghosts. I had entire conversations with my dad in my head, which is funny since he wasn't that much of a talker when he was alive. At first, I thought I was going nuts, but later, after I thought I'd lost Foggy too, I didn't even care. I knew my dad wasn't really there, but it helped to talk to him. I got to say many of the things I'd left unsaid, tell him about the life I'd hidden from him and the life I'd had after he was gone. Wherever he is, I hope he was really listening and I hope he understands. And I hope he can forgive me for some of the things I've done where I find it hard to forgive myself.
I don't think about prison much anymore. Sometimes, vivid scenes of the more intense moments come to me in my dreams, causing me to wake up gasping for air. But when the dream gives way to consciousness, the smell of fresh coffee and the light brush of a breeze through an open window, it doesn't feel so dark anymore. Even my messed up life has its lighter moments.