07:56
Faizan
To the left and right, the view is restricted by light pinkish stone blocks, large bricks, with a gloss to them; an ash-colored floor; above and throughout this building's structure, are the walls of a juvenile detention center. A holdover before going to Boys Town, or Redwing Reformatory, or if the judge decides, back home. The cell has chalk-like white doors, faintly shaded with a cream color like haze. The window in this 12 x 6 foot room, towards the east, the morning sun rises in the sky, has a pearl-yellowish tint to it. At its zenith an orange-yellowness spreads out touching the morning clouds which stretches over this structure called: "Woodview". Patches of blue surround the white and shady clouds, the patches of blue assume a kind of paleness, and perhaps it'll rain. Youth and earth are simply pebbles in time, like days. Time and space floats-it is like one is standing still at the speed of light, not aging, not doing anything. I can scarcely distinguish one hour from the next, but from the summer light in the sky I can tell by its vibrations, on a sunny day, what part of the day it is, especially at twilight, and sunrise.
God the Father has a long beard, this I know for certain, and the apostles have goat-skin tunics. The person across the hall in the other cell is seated on his bed, cross-legged, I know this also for a fact. And I also know for a statistic, I'm not made for serving time, it's been over two-weeks, I'm fifteen years old, and this is my fifteenth day in here. The sun has gone over the building, must be on the other side.
"Another day!" What more can I say, "One more gone forevermore." This is miserable, more so than anything I can think of. All the things I would be doing if I was not here. I'd head on down to downtown to the Mississippi River. Climb Indian's Hell in our neighborhood, the police call 'Donkeyland' or see Jackie, we were dating, or Nancy Pit, I dated her last summer, or Kathy S., she's been around, Big Bopper said she's interested in me. Or I'd be singing and humming with my guitar, like Elvis, or Rick Nelson, or Johnny Cash, or hanging out with the boys, or drinking, but that's what got me in here in the first place, drinking under age. Now all I do is keep arranging invisible things, or every piece of furniture in my cell, which is really nothing but a desk, and a toilet and a bed and a chair, and a Bible, and count those large stone looking cement bricks that make up the walls. I think of how the brick layer had to place every brick in place, just for this one little room.
Trifling acts. I ask to be allowed to do duties in the kitchen, I can perform such with ease, and so far they've allowed me to so, wash dishes, mop the floor, prepare this or that food item, by show and tell, and then do. We all eat and drink breakfast, lunch and supper, and get up with the chickens, every day, everything the same, regulated. Monkey see, monkey do.
I socked somebody square on the right side of the face, lowered his jaw some, after volleyball yesterday, as we were leaving the gym, up the stairway, I hit him so hard he slid down the stairs like a wounded ostrich. You got to be careful though, it was that I was on the higher step, and he kept poking me with his finger in the back, he actually been needling me for days unending, looking to advance his reputation in here, anyhow, I did a turnabout, and with a slight learn, smacked him a good one! When one is on a hill as I was, it is a good point of attack, if need be, I have a point of retreat also, whereas, he has none other than forward where he can't go I'm blocking his way, or back where he came from: thus, down, down, down he fell with two arms extended, he fell backwards onto the bottom step and floor. That punch I hit him was as if I lost the fountain of mercy inside my soul, and the devil flowed though me, into my brain, or perhaps God was saying: enough is enough, knock him a good one, and teach him a lesson. Whatever the case may be, He doesn't bother me anymore, and my anger is dried up. Why is this?... Perhaps satisfaction?
God the Father has a long beard, this I know for certain, and the apostles have goat-skin tunics. The person across the hall in the other cell is seated on his bed, cross-legged, I know this also for a fact. And I also know for a statistic, I'm not made for serving time, it's been over two-weeks, I'm fifteen years old, and this is my fifteenth day in here. The sun has gone over the building, must be on the other side.
"Another day!" What more can I say, "One more gone forevermore." This is miserable, more so than anything I can think of. All the things I would be doing if I was not here. I'd head on down to downtown to the Mississippi River. Climb Indian's Hell in our neighborhood, the police call 'Donkeyland' or see Jackie, we were dating, or Nancy Pit, I dated her last summer, or Kathy S., she's been around, Big Bopper said she's interested in me. Or I'd be singing and humming with my guitar, like Elvis, or Rick Nelson, or Johnny Cash, or hanging out with the boys, or drinking, but that's what got me in here in the first place, drinking under age. Now all I do is keep arranging invisible things, or every piece of furniture in my cell, which is really nothing but a desk, and a toilet and a bed and a chair, and a Bible, and count those large stone looking cement bricks that make up the walls. I think of how the brick layer had to place every brick in place, just for this one little room.
Trifling acts. I ask to be allowed to do duties in the kitchen, I can perform such with ease, and so far they've allowed me to so, wash dishes, mop the floor, prepare this or that food item, by show and tell, and then do. We all eat and drink breakfast, lunch and supper, and get up with the chickens, every day, everything the same, regulated. Monkey see, monkey do.
I socked somebody square on the right side of the face, lowered his jaw some, after volleyball yesterday, as we were leaving the gym, up the stairway, I hit him so hard he slid down the stairs like a wounded ostrich. You got to be careful though, it was that I was on the higher step, and he kept poking me with his finger in the back, he actually been needling me for days unending, looking to advance his reputation in here, anyhow, I did a turnabout, and with a slight learn, smacked him a good one! When one is on a hill as I was, it is a good point of attack, if need be, I have a point of retreat also, whereas, he has none other than forward where he can't go I'm blocking his way, or back where he came from: thus, down, down, down he fell with two arms extended, he fell backwards onto the bottom step and floor. That punch I hit him was as if I lost the fountain of mercy inside my soul, and the devil flowed though me, into my brain, or perhaps God was saying: enough is enough, knock him a good one, and teach him a lesson. Whatever the case may be, He doesn't bother me anymore, and my anger is dried up. Why is this?... Perhaps satisfaction?
Posted in: arts
