How does it feel to be imprisoned? At first, all seems so confusing, you fight to keep yourself focused, to adapt, to understand while battling against waves of incoming regret, remorse, endless questions, fear of change, fear of survival, speculations about freedom… Each passing second is an ordeal, reminding yourself of where you are. Then comes the suffocation, the need for more air, the natural need of freedom. A word that been been carved in history by so many blood stains must surely be considered the most fundamental need. But throughout the process, this word becomes barely a myth, an intangible speculation of the mind. Then comes the final phase, survival and adaptation. Where the mind gradually gives in to the new state it is now in. The whole process resumes to the sole battle of conscience against time. You can fight against time, but you find yourself deprived of all means in front of your own conscience.
And who could imagine a worse prison than your own organic envelop. A prison cell does not deny you the ability of speech or mobility. It just confines you to a restricted space. But as he lay there, a prisoner of his own shell, a prison cell seemed more welcoming. He tried to adapt himself, slowly evolving into another sphere. Where he was simply a shadow of himself, living on memories and a fragment of hope; innocent, fragile, naked hope. Hope streamlined to project the vision of a possible future. A future for which life has constantly been putting up challenges to mold each nut and bolt of his being. The world spins fast, but time is a heavy load to carry, and the pressure of each passing second was slowly distorting the integrity of his speculations about a tangible future. Soon, he was just a lifeless robot, programmed only for a confined amount of simple tasks.
The human brain finds its merit in its highly developed faculty of conforming to repetitive tasks. Some find it the haven which helps to escape the harsh reality of their simple existence. Routine induces a weird sense of security. The mechanical day to day routine, in a way, makes you lose track of the time. And this infinite replicated chain of events procures a peculiar assurance inspired by the predictability of each occurrence. You feel nothing is going to change for the worse as each single process has been reviewed, experienced and made obvious through repetition.
As the days passed, each one merely being a crude replica of the previous one, his body gradually capitulated, adjusting to the present scenario. But his mind continued on functioning at double regime, endorsing unimaginable fears and phobias. The psychological pain outran the physical pain till the latter became literally unfathomable. Although the morphine and the panoply of drugs constituting his daily dosage did somehow contribute to his condition, his imagination was a far more helpful instrument to break away from the daily trauma.
Imagination is the undaunted magical realm of dreams and fantasies. It knows no barriers except for that of the mind itself. You can be who you want to, where you want, when you want. It’s more than even reason itself can ponder upon. He described his imagination as the domain where conscience and sub conscience overlapped, reality and imaginary fought in fierce rivalry and at the same time, embraced in humility. His imagination flooded each and every part of his being, it was his essence. Whatever he saw or thought, endorsed by logic, reason or pure fantasy, each and every parcel of his mind was bathed in his imagination.
Sometimes he preferred not to describe what he could see, simply because all the words put together would result in an ineffectually undermining outlook; mere gibberish as compared to the picture sculpted in his mind. His imagination had the most crucial role in his life, and now it was all his life. That’s where he was now living in; a world made of memories and mysteries, a world he himself created to escape the crude reality, which paradoxically, he was the sole responsible for.
Memories can haunt you more than the spookiest of ruins. And he was himself far more wrecked than a ruin, living a life which he knew nothing of, trusting his faith in the one who was writing the script of his destiny. He felt like a coin being tossed around to prove the malicious incapabilities of fate. He had moved far beyond the point he had expected, striving against pain and delusions of a torn mind, fighting against the echoes of his stained past. The fear of of death had long given way to exasperation and sheer disinterest of the present. The only thing he could now wish for, was to hear the clock stop ticking…