The Writings On The Walls

This place defies the comfort that I am so used to. I cant quite tell you how I ended up here. I can say though that I was a very foolish man in my past. By staring at the walls I sometimes think I`m going to go insane. The stale white wall paper looks more faded each day, Except for the long paragraphs of writing on one wall. Toward the ceiling is a thin coat of mildew. It reeks of urine and disgusting criminals in here. It`s not much bigger than a closet. The cots we sleep on are cold and hard. Everytime I lay down on it, it reminds me of how much I miss home. I miss seeing outside these walls. Not only these walls, this place that I must refer to as hell. And yes, I am talking about prison. I cannot confide to anyone here. My cell mate became strangly religoius and all he talks about is the good lord forgiving him for his sins. I on the other hand had lost my faith much long ago. All I have are these walls that I write on. I figure that is the only way I have kept my sanity for the long 2 years I have been here. Visiting Days are even more painful than being here. I haven`t seen any friends or family scince my first week of being here. It breaks my heart more and more everytime no one shows up. I don`t understand how I`m not used to it though. I guess theres always that little ounce of hope in the back of my demented mind that one day someone will show up. I kid myself with that thought. Sometimes I think I would be much more content if I was on death row. That way I could count the days until it was over. I often wonder whats going to happen when I die. If heaven and hell do exsist then I`m fucked. Dammed to a new hell all it`s own. One thing I am greatful for is that I have yet to get raped by one of the horny bastards in here. I often think about suicide, but there would be no way. I wouldn`t want to bash my head against the walls until I die and I don`t even think that would be possible. I don`t think that I was given a purpose in this life. Maybe all my purpose is to write on these walls until there is no more room. That is what keeps me going. It brings them back to life. Less fadded. I often wonder when I pass if there going to paint over my useless words. Or pherhaps they`ll leave them here to help keep another prisoner from going mad. I often wonder if they would notify anybody if I was to pass. What would happen with my body. I`m not looking foward to being burried 6 feet under for the rest of enternity, or burned to ashses. I know it doesn`t matter because your dead but I always seem to ponder that question. My thoughts are mostly conusmed by death. That is the only thing I have to look forward to. The only way I`ll be able to taste freedom again. Why do I write these pointless words on the wall in another thing I think about. I don`t know whats going to happen when the walls are completly full with my bullshit. I will keep writing on them though. I will keep writing until I`m free or die. Whatever comes first.