Hell Wounds, Heals

My head is a bloated slug. My stomach screams for nourishment. I will be OK. I have to pee, but I can hold it, I will hold it. The human body is a selfish animal, but it falls in line eventually. Fresh wounds heal fast, and the first quake hits the hardest. When the aftershocks of pain and bodily yearning become less pronounced, like a struck cymbal, acceptance -- but not agreement -- sets in. Two hours ago I would have drunk my own urine for refreshment; now, I wouldn't take a sip from a Gatorade bottle if it were offered to me. Deprivation is an exercise, a discipline. And a drug.

I'm writing this in the present tense, as though I'm still confined, which I'm not -- I was freed two years ago. Or maybe it was three years ago. But there is truth in my words that transcends tenses. In my case, I was imprisoned in a Thai jail for drug smuggling, a crime for which I was, ashamedly, guilty.

Lesson: learned.

I'm not one to exploit my hardship for fame...but I would sell my soul to exploit it in the name of art. I suppose I'd have to dress my story up quite a bit for it to be accepted as such, but that's something I do pretty well. I'm a magician! Now you see it, now you don't.

The simplest truth is that writers are the best liars. It comes with the trade, and it attracts all manner of miscreants: folks looking to reinvent themselves in black ink. And I get that. Because human language is synonymous with redemption. Truth is in typing.

I've eaten bits of concrete because nothing else was available. I pretended they were cookie crumbs. Also have I enacted plays in my mind -- Tennesee Williams, Shakespeare, David Mamet -- to pass time, to satiate myself. For the soul requires nourishment of the imagination that rice or bread cannot provide. Its fuel is time, passion, experience, and too many x-factors to count.

One day, if I ever get out of this damned cell, I'll try.

I'll try.

I'm trying.