by Peter Davidson
I watch the shadow-drama of a life passing me by, flickering over my cell walls like some silent movie. With only insects for company, lethargy and energy take their remorseless turns in commanding my life. I stare at the notes I've posted on my window to the world outside. Will I be answered? More likely just read mechanically, filed, and noted by the spiders.
Spent, I slump back. What do they make of me, this human morsel locked away within their web? My crime? That of awareness. That time is finite. That I am alone. That I'm the only sane person in the asylum. But as a madman, I would say that.
Yes, I hear voices. All talking, few listening. I’m lucky to be here, I know. Some sit in the rain begging for handouts and crumbs while mumbling their wisdom. Others – the real madmen – shout from boxes on street corners to the amusement of bored teenagers and irritated business men. Only the pigeons really listen.
I’m not mad, not like them.
At least in here, I’m warm. I have everything and nothing at all, here, alone in my cell. Yet I understand things they need to know, outside, through that window.
My voice is out there. Talking, cajoling, persuading, seducing, annoying, whining and … faltering. Insects for company and just the spiders listening. Insane. Lost in this spiders web, glinting unseen in the darkness, waiting for discovery.