A Fearsome Predicament

How could a man, whose only companions are a pencil and a notebook, survive without fluid for near a fortnight, The answer, of course, is he cannot. But fear not, for the voice that has been collected on this paper is not from beyond the grave, no. My plan was foiled by the simple principle of the body’s self-engineered "flaw" of self-preservation. When the mind sees the water, it wants it, it craves it, it yearns so passionately that the bitter, dark surroundings lightened by only the dimmest lantern, seems to shine like the bright glow of the father sun. Yet, the mind knows that it mustn’t drink in order to stave off an even greater pain than thirst. The body, however, not feeling pain ( that occupation

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being afforded to the brain many years past) simply knows that it wants to stay alive, and in order to accomplish this fantastic goal, it must have water.Many a night, while I dream of the looniest things like birds sitting atop an invisible wire contrasted sharply to the blazing blue backdrop, my body, my own Benedict Arnold, wouldst rise up, and carefully meander towards the pool of life. It would begin to drink, as I would wake up, and catch it in the selfishly compassionate act. Unfortunately, a weak mind is weak, and the gorging would continue until I feel like the water in my stomach rivals the amount left in the pool. It is after these " feast" (which have shockingly occurred nine time since I’ve been here) that I feel a sense of belittling depression, followed by a surge of creativity. It was while under such a spell that I penned the following poem, to which years from now, my madness will be judged harshly following the transition unto death encompassed within the lines:

Darkness trembles, as the walls groan
musky in scent , my soul, left lone.
As it arrived, supposed, gate bound,
but lurking, inside still, where it may be found,
Remembrance of days past
greater than, the day at hand,
for mistakes made hitherto,
but none as vile, as laid upon the sand.
whipping, burning, torturous slew
swuch harsh withdraws, yet such are few

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in the pits, where life must lie
to sustain this fire, to keep it live
Why not you have seen, could not you hear
incessant clues to postpone this fear,
For unnecessarily soon, must be avoided
so as not my soul be mistakenly toiled
forgotten and clenched like a fine Russian fist,
but as lively as lilies in a fine Summer’s mist
How dare you behold onto me
these worrisome wretches
This gloomiest compartment, my misery doth fetches
& weeping it seems, only hastens the chore
of dying in darkness
upon lifes shore.

The similarities of my self and the luckless soul are dumbly evident, but to contrast his sadness I am somewhat reserved to the idea of death. To accept your final undoing is in a way to mock death, and his crimson grin, for his main job is not to kill, but to cause fear. Well, the fear I hold now only goes for the fear of pain, a painful stomach. But why, oh body, must the urge to water be so eclipsing to that of death! Could not you die earnestly, instead of waiting and persisting and allowing your fate to creep upon you. Oh, the struggles ones body commits with ones mind is truly a spectators sport

to the highest degree. The clashes, the arguing, and the cumbersome duels, usually ending with a bewildered "you" in a fetal position upon the floor.