Fifteenth Day

Still nothing to say. But oddly enough, still writing.

I thought that yesterday after I'd finished writing. If I really had nothing to say, these black lines on white paper wouldn't exist. And neither would I, really; at least not in here.

Then again, the idea that my thoughts are being read through, now, as I write, is deeply unsettling. However, it's also refreshing. I knew when I started using this paper that the people here would have the power to read it at will. I was writing for myself, but must have also been doing so at least partly for an audience.

But now that the diary has been confiscated, it feels kind of like an end. A book is never finished; the author always wants to do more to it; by taking the text away from me, these people forced me to finish.

It's a symbol of the power they hold over me: they have the ability to say when I start and finish things. I can't talk in this place, so I write. So they can define my thought by defining my writing.

That's much worse than the rather alarmist idea that they could start beating or torturing me at any time.

*

I feel an incredible urge to masturbate.

There is no stimulus, no reason, no real desire. Partly, I think it would be a way to pass the time without writing, with an end result that they can't take away from me. A way of asserting my power over my own world.

And part of me thinks it would be simply plain hilarious. Just imagine. A security guard looking at me in this bare room, and all of a sudden a start pleasuring myself. Comedy gold.

But I won't, I can't, do it. I just know it would go wrong. They'd come in and stop me, I'm sure. It would be embarassing.

But at least I can still think about doing it: they can't stop me from thinking about it.