Fat Man's Dream

I am now in a cold damp cell and there is very little light. The walls are stained and scarred, mapped in memory of events that I do not want to imagine.

I wear faded denim pants and no belt, a blue cotton shirt with frayed short sleeves and I am alone and shivering from the cold. There is a bunk in one corner of the cell toped with a thin, deeply soiled mattress but I can not bring myself to even sit on it. The floor is wet with slime and I will not even lean on the filthy walls. There is no resting place.

I stand near the rusting iron bars. I wait and wonder what has happened to my wristwatch.

I am weary but too strong to be willing to rest or take any comfort from this dirty environment.

I call out. Strangely, I can not hear the sound of my own voice.

I do not want to touch anything and I don't want anything to touch me.

I am hungry, starving with nothing to eat.

I try to conjure up an image of another place, somewhere safer, more comfortable, clean, but I am unable to recall ever having been in such a place.

I wonder how long I've been and will have to be in this cell. If I could see or sense and end to it, it would be easier, but I can not.

I look through my despair and down at my hand. Laced between my fingers is a pen, a silvered writing instrument trimmed in gold. It gleams, even in this faint light and seems out of place in this horrific environment.

I grip it tightly as I walk across the tiny cell towards the bunk. On the edge of the bed is a pad of lined yellowed paper.

I pick it up and begin to write these words, taking care to conserve every inch of this treasured pallet. As I stand and write, it is as if I've been absorbed by the narrative. My anguish lifts and I become more spirit than substance, floating with the work, unsoiled, safe, comfortable and full of joy.

I've left this place, I realize, and all others, to try to find a home; a home built of words on paper.