Track Thirty-Seven: What They'll Never Take

I never wanted to be here. It’s stupid, really. Really. Who wants to be stuck in their tiny cell, surrounded by these bleak, dull walls. Pah, it’s ridiculous. Really. Day by day, people just roll on in, never mind that guy who’s been there longer than the power switches. Never mind his carvings on the walls, counting down the days to his never arriving freedom. If I think about it, I’m just procrastinating the inevitable: I will die here, right here. Really. This chair will be my coffin, and this cell, my grave. Lodged between the normalities and lack of idiosyncrasies, here lies “X”, a man devoid of integrity, completely incomplete and a God-honest sinner. Pah, it’s ridiculous. If I stay here any longer, I might become just as apathetic as the very walls I’m carving. How ironic, I carve them, but they leave a bigger scar in my life. It’s pathetic. Really. Ha, I remember when Shannon came over to my cell. “What’s up?” he asked me. Isn’t that stupid? What’s up? The ceiling, that’s what’s up. A ceiling that’s blocking every bloody free thought from escaping and blossoming into a true desire, to run free from this damn hell hole, taste the tantalising liberty lingering just a few concrete inches away. What’s up? Stupid, stupid question. Really. You know, the only thing I’ve got going for me is my girl. She’s waiting on the outside for me. She’s all I’ve got left now, and she’s waiting. Really. With her eyes like the summer blue sky, auburn hair like the autumn setting sun, lips as red as the winter rose, her scent sweeter than the spring flowers. Just thinking about her makes me feel, happier? Yeah, that’s it. Happier. She makes me feel happier. I guess that changes things a little. I may still be stranded in this scantily secure slum, surrounded by these stupid scaramouch’s who ask me stupid non sequiturs, but then I just need to think about her, and everything’s ok. She’s waiting for me, she really is. And I can rely on her to be there. Really. But now, now it’s time to leave this absurdism, this surrealistic shithole for a temporary relief. I gather my dribs and drabs, and walk towards those gray, groaning doors. Drearily, deadened gates they are to me. The floor’s thick, thick with channels of people’s “thoughts” and “inspirations”. Pah, that’s blatant, hyperbolised rubbish. You want to know the truth? I’ll tell you, really. They’re all thieves. Plagiarisers. Not a single innovative idea, and yet they’re magnanimous in their “originality”, which they pilfered off someone else. Me on the other hand, I’m nothing but unique. Really. My channel’s nothing but pureness. These channels are like cocaine, really. Some are just filled with all sorts of shit, no potency, watered down to a fraction of their potential. Mine, on the other hand, is as if it’s just been taken from the plant. The tiniest whiff of it’ll knock you flat. Really. You know what though? All of our channels lead to one central nerve, infecting it with diluted drivel. Why do I even bother? It’s not like I want to be recognised is it? Oh no, I just love, love, love being jammed here between nowhere and nothing. Love it, I tell you. Stepping through those severe, grey doors of the elevator almost seem like passing into heaven. Really, it would be, if heaven was four metres high, three metres wide and three metres long. Who knows, maybe it is. Pah. I’m sick of this shit, it’s ridiculous. Really.

[As the elevator doors close, he casts a final glance through the gap at the rows and rows of desks. A small smile quirks the ends of his lips. He knows this is the last time he’ll see this place. The doors close, and so do his eyes. Goodbye, prison – cum – office. The real heaven’s waiting.]