Solitary

My virtual disappearance last week (I will not explain the reason here, as it may detract from what follows) prompted a few observant friends to mourn my passing. Rumours of my demise were greatly exaggerated. As the picture clearly shows, on my return, other than the total whitening of my hair, I was none the worse for my ordeal, having been treated tolerably well despite my enforced isolation. A week in solitary confinement allows one time to review one's perspective on life, and I was not harmed in any way. And to fend off the suggestion, neither was I hammered.

I even received one or two tasty morsels: a snail, the hindquarters of a rat, etc kindly pushed under the door by an anonymous benefactor. When hunger grips, you become less fussy. Even 30 years of Vegetarianism may lapse. My confinement did not stem the flow of my creative juices, and I brought back with me on my emergence much written material.

The cell was small, perhaps an eight foot cube, and a door with a peephole — usually closed — was the only relief and source of light when open. The walls were damp and black with mould. In one corner was a lead standpipe which due to its totally seized tap had been torn from its upper bracket by a former inmate and stood at a drunken angle. That act had caused a rip in the pipe which now supplied a constant drip of water — the source of a thin stream ending at the single soak hole in the centre of the cell, the only provision of sanitation. The floor, stone flags, was strewn with straw, which may never have been changed.

As I grew used to the darkness my need to write overtook my hunger, and caused a useful diversion. I hunted around to find writing materials. I started to clean the mould off the walls, which made them lighter, and made it easier to see what I was doing in the gloom. I dissolved the mould in water to make ink. I selected a few pieces of the least fecal hard straw from near the wall and by wearing away the ends on the stone floor fashioned pens with nibs of varying width, and by trial and error found one that worked well enough to experimentally scratch words on the now lighter section of wall. I first wrote a message to my captors. "Thank you for your hospitality. I will recommend this place to all my enemies."

This effort had exhausted my energy, and I fell asleep. In my weakened state my dreams were strange, and I fancied several beings of light greeted me and imparted wisdom. The borderline between sleep and waking blurred, and I believed they were present with me in the cell. They dictated much valuable and inspiring information, which I duly wrote in the only available space that I could take with me on my release — my own body. As the days passed, less and less space was left that I could reach and use as my parchment. I was growing thinner due to lack of food and interaction with living human beings. I wrote smaller and smaller to conserve the medium. At the last the letters were barely two millimetres high, and to the naked eye appear as a single solid line.

I have examined this writing since leaving captivity and am sad to say I cannot read a word of it. Before washing it all off I photographed every sentence, but for reasons of propriety will not be making it public. The files will remain locked in my computer until my death. Perhaps then (an appropriate time for a literary legacy to be uncovered) some future Champollion with time on his hands and the enthusiasm to give several years of his life to deciphering these hieroglyphs will discover what the heck I was raving about.