Imprisonment

I contemplate my imprisonment daily and the serene comfort it brings me. My jailer informs me he unlocked the door, and my freedom presents itself with a simple turn of a knob. However, I remain seated contemplating the world evolving around my prison, with wonder, fascination, and fear. I am eager to taste a delicately prepared cornetto, plated beside an aromatic espresso from a street-side café in Rome. I cannot wait to enjoy the pink-tinged sunrise over a Mediterranean beach and feel the mineral-infused muds of the Dead Sea. I know the door to my cell contains neither obstacle nor trick, my jailer left it open, if only I would go and grasp the wonderful life, I have grown accustomed to contemplating. I simply need to stand from the chair—placed comfortably in the corner right next to the barded window, overlooking the hillside landscape surrounding my prison—and walk out of the door. I am reluctant though to abandon my chair. This chair holds nothing special in its simple design, in fact, one of the legs broke some time back making it wobble a bit, still, it remains loyal to me, and gives me a place to sit and contemplate my imprisonment. I am further reluctant to leave my bed, which I have placed in the opposite corner. I accidentally broke the baseboard, and the frame splintered some time ago, which makes sleeping a bit difficult, but the same fact remains, this bed is loyal to me. My cell offers no more than what I have come to except, and I do not fancy parting with anything in it.  

I receive three meals, each at their appointed times, from my jailer who informs me day in and day out that he unlocked the door to my cell some time ago. “Freedom,” he says, “longs to greet me on the other side.” A repetitive refrain I have also grown painfully accustomed to. Each day I smile at him, thinking his words are altogether a bit too poetic for a jailer. However, I always thank him for his kind words and then proceed to eat the meal he brought me. I eat the same thing each day—stale bread with a piece of overcooked and unseasoned meat with a salad, which was prepared with only the minimal amounts of greens required to be named a salad. This meal is always served cold and unsalted, but I could always count on it being brought to me each day. The jailer, hoping to coax my stomach into an action the rest of me failed to do, would describe all the amazing food I could expect when I finally left this place. He describes in rich detail the spices and seasonings; the steak cooked to perfection with well-crafted potatoes served with a glass of the highest vintage red wine. He tempts me with the description of delectably baked confections, which melt in your mouth releasing well-practiced flavors.  Hearing this I ache to try the food, but I only ever smile and thank him. I could not possibly abandon the simple meals which had been served to me for this time, I would rationalize when the jailer left despondent.  

There was a time were after I had my dinner, I would inform him that I would be leaving and that even though his services were rendered to perfection, the time for my departure had arrived. He would grin and wish me luck. When he would leave and I decided the time was right, I would walk around my cell and straighten everything making sure each thing was in its place. I did not want to leave anything a mess. I would sit on my chair one last time thanking it for its service, a ritual I would repeat with the bed, attempting to avoid getting a splinter from the frayed wood. By the time this was finished, and I made my way to the door, ready to finally turn the knob, I would look back through the room and I feel guilty for leaving it. I would then decide that I could not go through with it and go back to sit on the wobbly chair and gaze out the window with yearning. How could I leave these things; whatever would happen to them if I were not there?   

Each day, my disappointed jailer found me in my cell, in the same broken chair, gazing out the same window, with the same forlorn look in my eye. The melancholic drool of the day emanating from my person. Oh, how I longed to be outside basking in the light of the sun, drinking in the summer winds, and washing in the cool river which ran unencumbered along the edges of the field. If only I could leave this place to which I have grown so accustomed. The jailer, in a further attempt to help, would leave the door wide open. He hoped this would give me the drive to leave this cell, even if the enticing food would not. He did this for several weeks, but stopped because each time, I would get up and instead of walking through the door, I would shut it. Each time he would come back to the closed door, with the same food and the same speech, wondering as he left why I remained in the cell, overlooking the beautiful scene unfolding outside.  

I contemplate my imprisonment daily, oh how I long to be free of these four stone walls. I know every corner of this room, where the wind seeps through the cracks in the mortar, where the spiders find the most optimal place to weave their webs, even where drops of water dripped from the ceiling when the rains come. Everything here captures my comfort, I find no surprises here, I know everything, and everything knows me. Risk never visits this place and imagination long ago abandoned it, love could not flourish, and happiness died many moons ago.  

I have never had any real visitors, while I have been here, except Longing. Longing visits often, to the point where he has become my most dear friend. He shows me nothing more than what could happen, always looking ahead, he talks of great things. He never shares the jailer’s story and has never prompted me to leave the cell. No, leaving would mean abandoning him and choosing instead to act. Longing suffered with me throughout my imprisonment, I could not abandon such a loyal friend. “Who would sit and talk with him if I left,” I often wonder. Longing tells me stories of what could occur, a future painted with the most beautiful colors. I enjoy his stories, but sooner or later, Longing leaves the cell too. He despises the jailer, who tells me each day to leave this place. Longing and the jailer cannot suffer to be in the same room with each other. Longing shuts the door behind him, leaving me to gaze out the window at the changing scene of the world. The doldrums dripping from each corner of the room, all I have to occupy my thoughts are Longing’s stories of grandeur.  

Each day I remain in my chair, longing to leave. I can never seem to muster the courage to walk out of the door. I am content to just sit in my broken chair in the corner looking out the window at the life I could grasp. That life could be mine, if only I acknowledge that Courage keeps leaving my cell door open and informing me that all I need is to get up and walk out claiming the life I have been longing for. Oh, how I contemplate my imprisonment and the serene comfort it brings me.