| when the building began in 1822, it was the first penitentiary ever a radically new idea for the confinement of prisoners. the outside of the building resembles a castle, to make it intimidating, to deter those who saw it from crime, yet the interior's architecture was patterned after a cathedral's. the idea was penitence. you wore a bag over your head as you were led to your tiny one occupant cell, and when the door closed behind you, you would have no more human contact for the duration of your stay. when you came in, it was to a world of silence. the wheels of the food carts had leather treads and the guards wore covers over their shoes so that there was no sound as you were fed a meal that arrived through a slot in the door. there was to be no noise, nothing to distract you from the crushing weight of your own soul, nothing to keep you from endlessly pondering what you had done, or perhaps did not do, that got you into the penitentiary. nothing. what would you think about, for those two years or five years, or twenty? how many times would you sort over and over through the same memories, the same songs, the same madness and misery? with no contact with the outside world or any humanity at all, how long would it take for your spirit to break? as the days slowly passed into weeks and months and years, would you do exercises to improve your chances of seeing another barren day, or would you batter yourself against the walls to vainly ask for the mercy of release? a single slit in the ceiling, enough to allow a shaft of light, would be your only answer. perhaps in the shadows of your fleeting sanity you might see something that resembled absolution, if only for a second. perhaps somehow you'd find it in your heart not to curse god and yourself and the men who had thrown you away, walled you off, wadded your mouth full of all your empty years until there was nothing more to say or do, nothing more to be. perhaps then you would be forgiven. the idea was penitence. |
| penitence |

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