The Confined Bodies of the Free Minded

I remember the first time.

I counted the doors and the gates.

I stepped across thresholds, each adding a layer of captivity with a buzz and a voice recorded warning that demanded haste.

Here you are.

I looked at the grounds in the sunshine.

The grass echoed green of the garden felt soothing and easy on the eye.

The sparrows fluttered in and then fled the imperious gulls.

Structures. Hierarchy in force, even here.

There you sat behind door 10.

No exit, no way to leave.

I felt the pain of confinement and wondered if you did too.

Wondered if this was something I’d get used to… if you’d got used to.

The wing felt like a stationary ship.

Static.

Anchored.

Landings like decks.

But this isn’t a cruise liner, this is a submarine burying us deep beneath the surface of it all. Cells for cabins… peephole portholes, portals to the life within.

Catacombs for the pale souls.

The sun doesn’t shine in here and you are prison pale, deficient in D and it calls out.

You smiled… a polite warmth.

Would you speak to me outside?

Would we know each other?

You were easy and I wondered how that was possible behind these doors.

You were human and beyond funny, full of curiosity and here in these pockets of connection, in this place, you seemed weathered and weary. Alive and astute. Respectful and resistant.

You are alive in this container, shipped out and striving to exist, to be you in a punishing tide.  

I think I would have drowned.