I don’t hate hypocrites. Mainly because it’s human nature to be contradictory in some aspect of your life. No one is perfect, regardless of how hard they may try to make it seem that way.
What I DO hate, are the hypocrites that try to preach when they think you’re off the beaten path. That just doesn’t fly.
You drink. You smoke. You’ll fuck anything that moves. You talk like you learned English from a caveman. You’re swift to make fun at someone else’s expense. But when it comes to anyone else, you want to start quoting scripture and tell the world how they need Jesus?
I’ve never been one for the “Do as I say, not as I do” philosophy. If you’re going to talk about it, you have to quite literally be about it. Otherwise, your words/advice/opinion on any matter hold no weight whatsoever.
Beforehand, it feels like it’s the absolute worst situation you could ever manage to be in. Trapped, with no way out. The first couple of days; torturous. Spending countless hours trying to hide your anguish from those who lurk around you, doing your best to make a good impression on the other inmates.
As the days turn to weeks, you start to get a hand of things. You’ll fall in with your circle, who’ll keep you out of trouble. Maybe even stake your own claim in running “things,” whatever that might mean to you. It starts to look like your Hell might not be so bad after all.
Weeks turn into months, and you forget what the outside world is like. Mind running vacant, your body is on autopilot, performing the monotonous tasks that occupy your free time throughout the week. Sometimes, you just don’t feel like you’re really “there” anymore.
Eventually, triggered through some minuscule detail like an inmate’s tattoo, the scent of the new lunch lady, or the hue of light reflecting off rusted iron bars, and it comes crawling back. Adventures with friends whos’ faces you can’t seem to recall. Late nights on the phone talking to the love of your life, if only you could remember her name. Vaguely, you look back on what was once a “better place,” but the portrait is more opaque than you once imagined.
Staring into the mirror of your spartan-esque cell, trying to decipher the picture; to understand why the image can be so familiar, yet unrecognizable. You know it must belong to someone, but who? Melancholy is settling in all around you, but why?
My alarm goes off, cutting this moment of self-discovery brief. I’ve got work soon. Another day of the same old routine, time to get ready.
All I know is, whoever that was in that mirror, it couldn’t be me. That face had eyes with a light that shined so bright, filled with the kind of bliss that only ignorance provides; eyes that see the world in vast shades of color.
Those eyes aren’t mine. They couldn’t be. There is no light here. There is no color.