I sit here under the stench of a thousand rotting corpses; the judgment of my infinite betrayal. My madness my cell. Their screams my prison guards. Even though I can see a splinter of light through a crack in the wall, I can only guess as to the joy the outside world is having, just in my honor. If only I were insane, the hell of my situation would be the most enjoyable experience: to wallow with no care in the world, laughing at the specter staring at me through the cold, stone floor.
Yet even on the best of days, while the wind breaks down my resolve, and the snot hangs from my nose like sharp, menacing, stalactites, I can only wish for death to come to me; fast, and painless. To hold out hope for such an end would be to ignore the whole gravity of my situation. Nay, I gave up hope long ago and now can only wish. I only tell you this because, in some far off time and space, my journey may well be the guiding light of some unfortunate soul; trapped in his own demise. At least then, he may have some comfort in knowing that hope was hopeless and that the end might never come. Such would have been merciful to me. But for me, there could be no mercy. And no end.
While on winter break, so many moons ago, I had wanted to trek through the wilderness. I had wanted to find what lie beyond the dark wood and bramble of thorn and bush. Life must be otherworldly out there, I said. And if I said it enough, I would believe it and that was the most important of deceptions: the one of self. For all of the others to be made possible, one must conquer the first.