Lying in somewhat an unmoved state, is the position J takes every night as he lay upon his bed. His room now is a pale and dark reflection of what he faces everyday. A confinement that had transpired by his own hands.
He thinks about the things that had propelled the fate that had put him in this very confinement. A confinement that had now consumed his thoughts and his steady reflection.
Were there signs of remorse for the very acts he did?
At times when he vents his frustrations, his knuckles show the very marks of what had occurred. Fists filled with welling dark ocean blue. It must have been something that was brought to his attention. Something in his quiet reflection has conjured this reaction. A reaction that gathered steam through his veins that had inspired this form of self mutilation.
Pained with the reality that constantly haunts him is the decisions which carries with it an unredeemable alteration. He could not, even in his state of frustration, his morbid obsession in a cycle he ritually enacts in mutilating himself, bring the life of one his hands had sentenced to death.
For there, confined in the isolation of a prison cell, lies a man, guilt ridden with remorse. Though he tries at best to regain back some form of sanity. Some form of serenity. They simply elude him. The chasm of forgiveness is as far as the east is to the west. Forever for him to desire but never in reach. For in him, his sin, his judgement, is the though of never having the chance to eradicate the hate that had propelled his actions to submerge and take action. What mortal men murder, he will not be able to regain.
His, is a pale reflection of a life in a forever state of desiring but never able to attain. His actions have become the very thing that has brought him his own sentence. An unattainable state of redemption. At least in his own mind.