I live near a central jail.
The towering wall that borders the line between freedom and imprisonment is dotted with white bleach paint leaked from the years of battering rain that fell down upon it.
Maybe because I started seeing that structure from such a young age, it never really held a foreboding feeling inside of me. Or it could be that its scariness wore off me like the novelty of a new dress because I saw it every day on my way to college or to town.
One day as I climbed my way up the small hill atop which the jail stood, I saw numerous white-clad men bending down, busy working their way through the teeming greenery that had outgrown its borders in the monsoon. As I neared them, I could see their white dresses were more of a yellow tone, the whiteness fading from being overworn.
No one paid much attention to me. I half expected them to jump at me with the sickle in their hand and chop my head off. Another half of me wondered why they didn't run. Run towards the horizon and not look back. Run through the paddy fields and jump over the walls. I wondered why despite freedom being just a footstep away, they choose imprisonment.
One man straightened up and looked at me. I would like to make up stories around what I saw in his eyes. Maybe a spin-off of how his eyes betrayed the very same thought that crossed my head.
But I believe I saw resignation. Or something along the lines of it. Maybe even contentment lurking behind it somewhere.
The towering wall that borders the line between freedom and imprisonment is dotted with white bleach paint leaked from the years of battering rain that fell down upon it.
Maybe because I started seeing that structure from such a young age, it never really held a foreboding feeling inside of me. Or it could be that its scariness wore off me like the novelty of a new dress because I saw it every day on my way to college or to town.
One day as I climbed my way up the small hill atop which the jail stood, I saw numerous white-clad men bending down, busy working their way through the teeming greenery that had outgrown its borders in the monsoon. As I neared them, I could see their white dresses were more of a yellow tone, the whiteness fading from being overworn.
No one paid much attention to me. I half expected them to jump at me with the sickle in their hand and chop my head off. Another half of me wondered why they didn't run. Run towards the horizon and not look back. Run through the paddy fields and jump over the walls. I wondered why despite freedom being just a footstep away, they choose imprisonment.
One man straightened up and looked at me. I would like to make up stories around what I saw in his eyes. Maybe a spin-off of how his eyes betrayed the very same thought that crossed my head.
But I believe I saw resignation. Or something along the lines of it. Maybe even contentment lurking behind it somewhere.
