Crush
I ask that you now snap your mind out clean, like a freshly-dried sheet, and spread it out as a canvas. I am going to paint a picture of a prison for you. My prison. There is a room where every surface is reflective and every edge is sharp and exact. Efficiency is demanded by it, in every action taken from the moment of entrance. I don’t know what will happen if something goes wrong. Probably nothing. I like to keep everything at right angles, though, just in case something does. Then, at least, I’d have my neatness to fall back on.
As I split the head in two, I can hear a soothing crunch. I have to slice it several more times before it is in nice small bites. The lettuce then goes into a bowl. I am fixing myself a salad. No one else ever asks for salads, or fruit, and rarely bread. Rapists ask for meat. Murderers ask for the most expensive meal possible, though (much to my satisfaction) oftentimes their requests are denied.
What upsets me is that the psychotic crimials, the lunatic fringe of the lunatic fringe, do not even get meal requests. They are given a carton of milk, chicken, peas, and a fruit cup. Disgusting. Their mind is so beyond what we could comprehend...it would be like playing chess against someone who does not know or care about the value of each piece. My game is ruined. They always ruin the best part of the game.
No one will ever understand the satisfaction of reading an especially decadent meal, an admission and submission to sin. Ordering the least healthy and most tantalizing dishes is all but a capitulation to their despair. No one hopes or thinks they will live once they have sat down to their last meal. They are intent upon using what little freedom they have left, and flouting it in the face of society and G-d. Everything bad for the soul has been done; the body must follow suit.
Around here nobody knows where their food came from. I wish they would just try and critique it...try to touch me. My transcendence would level them. I am the person who asked for nothing and will recieve nothing. I am the blinking spirit.
As I split the head in two, I can hear a soothing crunch. I have to slice it several more times before it is in nice small bites. The lettuce then goes into a bowl. I am fixing myself a salad. No one else ever asks for salads, or fruit, and rarely bread. Rapists ask for meat. Murderers ask for the most expensive meal possible, though (much to my satisfaction) oftentimes their requests are denied.
What upsets me is that the psychotic crimials, the lunatic fringe of the lunatic fringe, do not even get meal requests. They are given a carton of milk, chicken, peas, and a fruit cup. Disgusting. Their mind is so beyond what we could comprehend...it would be like playing chess against someone who does not know or care about the value of each piece. My game is ruined. They always ruin the best part of the game.
No one will ever understand the satisfaction of reading an especially decadent meal, an admission and submission to sin. Ordering the least healthy and most tantalizing dishes is all but a capitulation to their despair. No one hopes or thinks they will live once they have sat down to their last meal. They are intent upon using what little freedom they have left, and flouting it in the face of society and G-d. Everything bad for the soul has been done; the body must follow suit.
Around here nobody knows where their food came from. I wish they would just try and critique it...try to touch me. My transcendence would level them. I am the person who asked for nothing and will recieve nothing. I am the blinking spirit.
posted by Diveacje at 4:10 PM
3 comments
