journal: jail

I was wandering the internet late at night and got a compelling urge
to write about my experience in jail about seven months ago. I won't
re-hash the situation but will say that I was innocent and justifiably
mad at my imprisonment. Not only this: I was quite sick. This was
because I had tried Ephedra for the first time the night before and had
taken too much. In Jail, it was desolate. The walls were so white you
couldn't even think of the word "soul." Everything was very plain. I
guess, thinking back, I've often thought that I wouldn't mind spending
some time in jail if it was like the Medford Jail. Everybody just hung
around and slept all day. The idiots were out there watching television
and it wasn't the best company. But, heck, you could probably make
something of that lifestyle. Heck, our whole society's a jail; what's
the difference really? There's poor jail, middle class jail and the
jail of the soul, which holds even the super-rich. But my experience in
jail was traumatic. I'd been bleeding for this relationship. I'd been
pushing through and dealing with a serious stomach illness, keeping my
grades up. I took the Ephedra to help me write a creative story. But
I'd been bleeding so much, I was so depressed, that there just wasn't
any story in me. There still isn't. The well's run dry. I don't want to
pretend anymore. I just want to scrap.