I am a prisoner.
Though no walls surround me, no iron bars form a cage keeping me captive, I am nonetheless, imprisoned.
What makes a man a prisoner? Is it a jailor watching his every move, a cell enclosing him from the outside world, a sentence handed down from above, dooming him to be captive forevermore?
No. No jailor or warden patrols the grounds of my existence. No cell shuts me off from the outside world against my will. No sentence was imposed upon me by the laws of the state.
I am a prisoner, without escape, but the walls which enclose me are of my own creation. Constantly am I afraid, and yet without this prison which keeps me captive I could not live; though it is the bane of my existence it is also the very thing that makes it up.
I am a prisoner and I want more than anything to escape, yet I know there is no hope. I know that every day when I awake the prison will be waiting: my job, my home, my family, my mind.
I think about the revolver in the shoebox in the closet, and how I know there is only one way out of this prison: destroying it.