The Compound

I drank the kool-aid. I did what no one warned me not to do. The contract was already signed before it fell in my glass hands. Life in this place is nothing that was promised. Wake up at nine, conform by noon, and conform by eight, lights out by ten. Day after day in the home in the grass desert that expands for miles North and South. The end of the world Columbus sailed off of to the West, and the abyss Amelia Earhart flew into in the East. They have us in rooms. Little tiny rooms. The propaganda is playing in every one of these rooms. It’s my alarm when I wake up. It’s my lullaby when I go to sleep. It’s what’s being formed in the wind exhaling from everyone’s cowardly mask of a mouth. The lies that are holding together the skin of their organs. Save me.

            We listen to this, my pack and I. We’re such filthy beasts. When they’re done conforming we talk about conforming, my predestined pack and I. It’s all that is done. Conform, conform, conform. Conform. Their skin is stretching. Wake up at nine, conform by four, lights out by ten. They know I despise this place. Its very existence is plaguing my glass body. Save me-. Their eyes see right through my bones and into the marrow of my spine and extract it, trying to suck out every ounce of free will I have. Some friends. Never mind, they’re too busy conforming to actually care. Save me.

            You’re keeping me sane. You understand. No one else even tries. Your skin isn’t nearly as stretched as the others. You’re there to show me compassion while the rest of our filthy beasts never leave the room next door. Save me-. Sometimes we can sit in here for hours and listen to each other’s voices trail off while the rest of the pack stretch their skin. But you can’t stay in here all day. Sometimes you are on the other side of that concrete wall, stretching your skin.

            There’s a common ground that is surrounded by our tiny rooms. Our tiny little rooms. No one’s ever out here. Sometimes I sit right in the middle of it. My glass hands sink into the dead soil. All of the doors around are locked. Door 37: locked. Door 14: locked. Door 00: open. My pack is inside with their needles ready to go again. You’re inside holding one too. Save me-. Needles, conformity and a rebel make for a fine evening. No one can hear the screams through the concrete walls. Ten o’clock lights out. Good job boys; let’s do this again tomorrow. Save me.

            Wake up at nine. Conform by eleven. Conform by one. Conform by three. Lights out by ten. The propaganda echoes. Through the loudspeakers into the marrow of the marble bones of the masses. Conform. Conform. Leaving. That is the focus. I cannot do this. Save me-. The dime drops. You are there. You cannot come with me. You said so yourself. At least you will see me out.

            We walk out of the room, right past our pack members’ rooms. Save me-. They are about to get left behind in the place we were one divided. The entrance of this place, has it ever been used as an exit? History remembers those who make it. The present scorns them. That entrance, wide open. That ten thousand meter walled exit. Up goes the rope, reaching into the stars over Jericho. You belay me over. Horizontal footstep after footstep. Broken brick after broken brick falls on your head. Still you remain strong, holding that rope that will pull us apart sixty-forty. You’re holding it as if I was you flying away to freedom. I land on the other side. The wall has all but collapsed now. On the other side of the open gate you stand. You urge me to come back as the ground waters below you. They’re going to hate me come nine in the morning. Save me-. You’re still just standing there. Save me from this guilt. Turned around, you’re back in your little tiny room. I’ll take that as a no. I’ll turn my back too. Going south through the grassy plains into nowhere.