Sometimes deprivation could arouse creative inspiration.
I have never been inside a cell. Nor I wish I could be one day.
During storms like today, I am bombarded with strange ideas. That’s probably beneficial to my writing.
I remembered once I tried to envision myself being locked up. Perhaps, not as a crook but a simple visitor who wished to experience the real thing.
Before I began my self-exile in my room, I readied the simple food just like what they could be eating there. No junk food or sodas. Three meals with minimum portions.
I took out the mattress in my bed and placed it outside the room. The pillows, too, were reduced to one. (I thought of taking them all out but I could not sleep without even one.)
When the room was ready, it looked like an ordinary cell, a bare quarter where a prisoner would stay and ruminate how he lost his freedom.
The first few hours went by as usual. My activities were normal except there was no TV to watch. I could live with it.
When you had nothing to do but write, then write you would. I was amazed how it could be gratifying to be left alone without any disturbance from the outside world. (I was even excused from doing household chores.)
But, a few hours later, monotony got into me. I paced around the room looking for something else to do. Sleep was an option but sleeping longer than what the body needed sapped my energy. All I could think of was how to get out.
In the evening, everything was clear. Being inside a cell was psychological torture. The disadvantages outweighed the advantages. Not only freedom was obstructed, the incarceration could reduce one to a hopeless case.
It was only a day for me (and I controlled the situation) to feel the forced solitude. Imagine if the sentence was longer than a year, or even twenty years, how could have I survived the ordeal?