My Prison

“We are, each of us, our own prisoner. We are locked up in our own story.” – Maxine Kumin

Maxine Kumine’s quote above is unvarnished.

I strongly believe, whether one knows it or not, that we are incontrovertibly, mentally, spiritually and helplessly trapped. Some, more than others, and others, more than some, but in the end, we all remain the same: a prisoner.

When I read, “We are, each of us, our own prisoner,” I not only get taken back by this bold statement, but I also find myself nodding in absolute agreement! I am unquestionably imprisoned, living life as a prisoner of my own self, trapped in a penitentiary that only I am responsible for creating!

Sporadically, I escape my cell, but I only get lost in the vast world, while regrettably contradicting my very own goals and beliefs at every turn I make. To my advantage, at the end of each unknown path, there always seems to be a dead end, leaving me to turn around and head back the way I came from.

I might be lost in a maze of unfamiliar prisons, but I believe it is necessary to unlock oneself and simply get lost. Others might refer to this as a great escape, but I denote it as something more meaningful than just a mere getaway; I see it as an act of being desensitized; numb against “the dominant societies” remarks and numb against everything that is labeled “right.” Why should one think and act the way others tell someone to? And who actually knows what is right and what is wrong? When I choose to escape and walk one foot in front of the other astray, I am reminding society that I built and I control the prison I am in, not their influential and brainwashed community. I learn, live, love for my own sake, not anyone else’s.

Although I rebel, I know that my correctional facility is what is acceptable to high society (as well as those who truly care and want me to do well, but those people only make up a minuscule percentage of the world’s population whereas society is made up of millions of followers). And in addition to the not-so-important reasoning based strictly upon self-consciousness and the need to belong, is an essential truth about my prison that I have discovered growing up; I am accustomed to it, I acknowledge, as well as realize, that it can benefit me, and that, consequentially, it is a relatively safe place to be. Basically, what I am trying to say is, I love my prison!

My influenced and indestructible asylum foundation, in which I have worked so hard to build over the years, is a concrete mixture of truly acquiring knowledge, attaining outstanding grades, persisting virtuousness, and all that is pure and ideal to no other person but myself. Such ambitions are cemented and nailed together resulting in the infrastructure of my very own sanctuary, where I am the one to make up my own mind, as well as think my own thoughts.

Conversely, I cannot stand my personalized haven where I must strive to be a perfect student and where I must prioritize my time, leaving myself little time to enjoy "insignificant and meaningless" pleasures.

But no matter how far I run away and no matter how many times I tell myself that I will never go back, I end up back home to my sheltered prison. It is, inevitably, the setting to my story, and, without it, I feel disorientated and homesick.

I am in love with my story thus far, imperfections and all.

I am, what teachers sometimes refer to as an “ideal” student, but in addition to that, I am faulty and vulnerable, because I am still a child living a unique lifestyle, trapped yet free, listening to others as one listens to music, and then writing a story (my story) based upon appealing nonentities I have heard, but do not fully comprehend.

Stepping outside of my prison is a dangerous risk and that is why I find comfort in being trapped. I don’t want to, nor can I afford to, ruin my life.