kagablog

-For Franz Kafka

I am a prisoner in a cold cell. The prison I am kept in has long been decrepit and poor, and I have no more neighbours to keep me company, but I did have some companions –they may even be called friends, in some circumstances- in the old days when the prison was a shining bastion of reformation. And, like all people confined for long enough in one place, we shared stories and myths. I cannot, at the moment recall any of them, except one.

The myth is that if one is cooped up too long in the stagnation of prison air, one’s lungs grow accustomed to it, and then if one should be freed or escape, one’s lungs would immediately seize up because of the freshness of the air and one would die. This is the one story that stuck with me through my long imprisonment. I have forgotten many many things; my name, for one, but in the end that is not important to me as the guards would simply call me by my number, not my name, and since the guards have long since disappeared, I have also forgotten my number. I have also forgotten for what crime I was imprisoned in the first place. I was never in any doubt that I deserved my sentence; I’m just no longer sure why I received that sentence, or even exactly what the sentence was. I’m sure it’s a dreadfully long time. How could it not be? I’ve been here for a dreadfully long time. Surely the fact justifies itself? I have been here for a long time, it follows logically that I have to be here for a long time.

As I have mentioned before, the prison is no longer what it was when I came here. There are no longer showers or food or company or guards. They have all left a long time ago, and I am alone in the prison. Yet, I never dare to venture beyond the hall of my cell, and rarely even beyond my cell. All the doors are open, yet I fear the freshness of the air beyond it. And besides, I don’t feel like I’ve completely served out my sentence. I should know when I am finished.

Yet, even if someone from the ministry came and said my sentence was served and I was free to go, I’m not entirely sure I would leave. I would be absolutely paralyzed by the fear of the air, and they would not be able to shift me, and finally, after exerting themselves to some extent they would wipe their hands and foreheads, spit on me and walk away saying that I did not deserve to be let free. And perhaps I don’t, if fear of leaving paralyzed me so.

Or perhaps the ministry man would not be a ministry man after all, but rather a sneaky revolutionary who would try to get me to leave on purpose so the air would kill me, and thus prove his movement’s point to the government. And he would not shed a single tear for me, for how much greater is his cause than the life of one invalid?

Or perhaps the ministry man is a ministry man, and he has been sent to oversee my execution. And he would come and before the execution he and the guards would stand and talk and decide to have a laugh at my expense. They would decide that they would give me false hope just before shattering it again and killing me with what sustained them.

As I sit here, this has happened many times, but every time the people would come to get me I would throw them with rocks and shout until they ran away and I am left in my isolation. No, I will never trust them! I will sit just here and serve my sentence out quietly, until I’m quite sure I’m done.