Thirty-Fifth Day

What a load of old shit I’ve been writing. ‘I wonder if I really want to leave’: of course I want to leave. I just want to get out of here. It doesn’t matter if, in the outside world, my choices are arbitrary or irrational, if I’ve always drunk coffee when actually I prefer tea. It just doesn’t matter. At least I’m making a choice. At least I’m able to make a choice. Here in this room, I have no decisions to make, and it is stifling. All I decide upon is the next word, and whether I prefer this to that. I prefer that. I like its accusatory rattle. But it doesn't really matter because words are not actions - they are not real. There's nothing else.

If this 42 days thing is true, then I’ll be out of here in a week. I wonder if I get to leave on the 42^nd day or if I have to wait until after 42 days. How much could one last day hurt? I wonder what time they’ll let me out. Morning would be nice – some daylight perhaps. A full day of walking and sun. Or just an afternoon, even a rainy one. But it’s perfectly possible that I could be here indefinitely. Maybe they think they’ve found evidence of some past crime – those sweets I stole from the shop as a kid, that lie I told at school – ‘Oh no sir, it certainly wasn’t me’ – anything. I can’t remember all of my own life. Maybe I’m now awaiting trial and nobody’s told me. Who would know? Who would fight for me? The government? These people are the government, I guess. Why haven’t my friends done anything?