Actually, I liked jail; I liked the quiet of it, especially my first time. All of us kids wore orange jumpsuits like the adult criminals wear for murdering but we were not that, we were not murderers, and far from adults: I was not that, especially. It was an important color though, like wearing a superhero's super suit. Hour after hour I would spend isolated, a lone dim bulb to keep me company and the only vein from inside that room to out was through a sliver of a window revealing a narrow view of barely another face squeezing a look back at me. For the hour that we spent outside those rooms per day, this first time in, there was a gentleman, who, I’d heard, had just turned 18 and who shouldn’t have been there because he was, after all, an adult: a real one. He wanted to speak with me. I, on the other hand, did not wish to speak with him. When he did confront me he asked a lot of questions: “What you read?” (don’t look at him) “Why you just sit there like that?” (smile a little bit) “You wanna bust outta here with me?” (unless my mommy picks me up first) “You like me?” (I wish you were dead, you evil fucker) I kept quiet but that scared them, all of them, the orange people in jail, who have no life, wishing they were murderers, waiting for one day to make their mark. I scared them. I was a mystery in my scared silence, and nobody in jail likes a mystery. In a big group one afternoon all wrapped around me, their hands resting brotherly on my shoulder revealing to me softly to me methodically to me that the adult was planning my death, that I was to be dead before too long. After hearing that I went back to my cell, a religious magazine in hand, and thought about the coming of the next day, and how I might deal with the murder of me, the death of myself. It happened sometime while I was reading. I don’t have much need to talk about it. I’ve never told my wife that I, her sweet man, could do something like that. But it’s all worked out just fine. It’s just sort of faded into another childhood memory.

joshbrolinさん(@joshbrolin)が投稿した動画 -

ジョシュ・ブローリンのインスタグラム(joshbrolin) - 10月2日 12時31分


Actually, I liked jail;
I liked the quiet of it,
especially my first time.
All of us kids wore orange jumpsuits
like the adult criminals wear for murdering but
we were not that, we were not murderers,
and far from adults:
I was not that,
especially.
It was an important color though,
like wearing a superhero's super suit.
Hour after hour
I would spend isolated,
a lone dim bulb to keep me company

and the only vein from inside that room to out

was through a sliver of a window revealing
a narrow view of barely another face squeezing a look back at me.
For the hour that we spent outside those rooms per day,
this first time in,
there was a gentleman,
who, I’d heard,
had just turned 18
and who
shouldn’t have been there
because he was,
after all,
an adult:
a real one.
He wanted to speak with me.
I, on the other hand, did not wish to speak with him.
When he did confront me
he asked a lot of questions:
“What you read?”
(don’t look at him)
“Why you just sit there like that?”
(smile a little bit)
“You wanna bust outta here with me?”
(unless my mommy picks me up first)
“You like me?”
(I wish you were dead, you evil fucker)

I kept quiet
but that scared them,
all of them,
the orange people in jail,
who have no life,
wishing they were murderers,
waiting for one day to
make their mark.
I scared them.
I was a mystery
in my scared silence,
and nobody in jail likes a mystery.
In a big group
one afternoon
all wrapped around me,
their hands resting brotherly
on my shoulder
revealing to me
softly to me
methodically to me
that the adult was planning my death,
that I was to be dead before too long.
After hearing that I went back to my cell,
a religious magazine in hand, and thought about
the coming of the next day,
and how I might deal with
the murder of me,
the death of myself.
It happened sometime while I was reading.

I don’t have much
need to talk about it.
I’ve never told my wife
that I, her sweet man,
could do something like that.
But it’s all worked out just fine.
It’s just sort of faded into another
childhood memory.


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