This Prison

January 23, 2012
By DeMan SILVER, Barnegat, New Jersey
DeMan SILVER, Barnegat, New Jersey
5 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Each gust pierces my skin like a knife, twisting and turning slowly as it penetrates my
flesh. My bones rattle. They tremble like a mouse at the feet of a giant. They are spastic,
uncontrollable. A thin shield of cotton that adorns my back offers little reprieve from the
continuous stabbings. I quietly pray for my release but I know that I am trapped here for at least
twenty three more minutes of torture today. The plot which I suffer above is overgrown. Thin
pillars of grass rise above the otherwise barren ground like little skyscrapers. They glisten like
diamonds under the weight of the morning dew. I am trapped. The little skyscrapers surround
me. Confined within these pillars, I am cold, lonely, and exposed. I open my mouth as if I am
eager to taste one of the blades. It is brash and unforgiving. It tastes like the end to those walks
on the boardwalk, the cool flow of water on my lips, Italian ice, and those days with Santeria on
replay for five hours straight. It is crisp, acrid, and unwelcoming. Where has the summer gone?
Has it taken away the promise of a happy future, robbed me of my dignity, and replaced it with
cells and bars of steel? I long for the time I am free from these walls. To the left is an
impenetrable fortress of brick and to my left lies a horde of empty people. Their books are
stacked on the table, precariously perched like rocks on the edge of a cliff. I worry that they will
fall and shatter the momentary silence like glass, dispersing its glittering fragments about the
ground. Their pens twitch nervously in their hands. I sense their insecurities, covered up with
lipstick, plastic, and paint. Their eyes wander left and right just looking for something to snicker
at. They smell like dead roses, cheap perfume, and jealously.
They begin to whisper. The sound grates like nails on a chalkboard. It sounds like secrets.
Here I am, stuck between these two walls. I hear a whimsical melody dance through the air. I
look up. It is only a bird. It is fleeting. I feel the hair on my leg stand up. It feels like a spider
crawling slowly up my leg. I can only imagine it sinking its fangs into my flesh, the stinging
sensation of its venom pulsing through my veins, replacing the pain of existence with a far more
tangible pain. I must be losing it. I look down. It is only the grass.
Its sound is replaced by the hum of an air conditioner sputtering desperately like a car
unwilling to start. I worry this air continue to struggle even after I am gone. Its sentence is much
longer than mine. I only have four years. I can only pity this chunk of steel, so lifelike yet
simultaneously lifeless. All these whispers and books do that to things; until they are free from
these walls. Hopes. Dreams. Memories. Expectations. Those moments shared with you. They
taste like today seasoned with the promise of tomorrow. Cold, unforgiving, and indifferent. Each
day will pass and hopefully so will I. Someday these walls will mean nothing more than dust.
Until then, I will rise, shower, eat, learn, be ridiculed, drive, be the good guy, lose the girl again,
hold in the tears, pretend it’s okay when it isn’t, sleep, and dream of when things will be
different. Until then; until those caps fly up in the air, this is my prison.

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This article has 1 comment.

Ollie said...
on Mar. 9 2012 at 9:49 pm
I really like your style! I'm beginning to feel the same way about school sometimes. Try to stay positive though :) but your writing is beautiful.


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