I’ve always quite liked the idea of being in prison.
I’ve never particularly been a fan of the things I’d have to do to end up in prison. And, I’ll be honest, committing the crimes is probably less offputting to me than being judged to have committed crimes. But the simple, structured, externally-imposed aceticism of prison is a soothing concept. If I imagine existing in a world of white breeze block walls, smooth hard surfaces, rigid routines and basic expectations, ah, that feels nice. I know rationally that the experience of prison cannot be described that way, but still, nice.
It’s probably because my inner world is impossibly convoluted, and navigating its labyrinth can be so exhausting that I often don’t care for the mundane complexities of everyday modern life. That’s probably why. I’d also find it quite helpful to have someone tell me when to eat. And what. And where.
Sometimes I wish I could simply delete all the clutter from my life. Make everything but the bare necessities vanish. Take away the luxuries. Take away the choices. Take it all away.
Occasionally I do delete the clutter – carpet bomb any and all offending areas of my life and start over. The problem with that is, while it gets rid of one kind of mess, it tends to leave another. Because in real life, everything is connected to everything else. There are never the clean edges between deleted and non-deleted that I hope to find. In real life, the best you can hope for is partial deletion. Which is dissatisfying.
But it’s often a blessing.