Numbers

There are many things I dwell on. Many possibilities I explore within the confines of this sullen cell. Most are out of the realm of reason.insane. convoluted. Thoughts which I can not, will not, begin to define. In this fragile state, reminiscing on past decisions and regrettable choices... I would not live to see anything other than the artificial light. If, in my mind, I in any way revisit the past -give in to the temptations of reliving all that haunts me- I would, in the literal sense of the word...die. Die from the agony which I constantly surpress, die from the regret which i am weakly restraining. Die from the flood of emotions which I predict would drown me. I am no more than an empty shell, a corpse without a soul or conscious thoughts. And, for the meantime, I desire no other than that. A numb brain unable to detect my ever throbbing heart. "One thousand two hundred and ninety six" My voice echoes throughout the cell "One thousand two hundred and ninety seven" I do not pause. Nor have I paused for the duration of my encarceration. I count until I no longer know the proper term for such number, then I begin from one. It is a never ending cycle of repetitive digits, one list which I persevere with regardless. And though I am aware of all that surrounds the cushioned white walls of my cell, I choose to concentrate solely on the numbers. The numbers. "One thousand two hundred and ninety eight" I have no other source of entertainment. I am beyond bored. I have had no human contact, nor any indication as to what time or day it is. I can not recall the face of my Father, nor the gentle tones of my Mother. I have no memory of friends, acquaintances or enemies. I no longer can speak of my location, my purpose. My name bears no meaning, my own appearance unknown. All that reminds me is the small print on the cushion, indicating that I am encarcerated within a mental health hospital. And the voices.





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