What gets me through

He is focused, like a surgeon, a freespirited surgeon with nothing to lose. A bit of a Jack-the-ripper, perhaps. But, before him, instead of a body is a piece of paper, and instead of a scaple he handles a crayon. A thick broken pink pastel that he borrowed from a child. A little girl sitting beside him, one of his students, who is obviously much less enthralled with this assignment than her teacher. For her it is merely a frivolous waste of time, for him it is a necessary tool for survival. He cannot hear her little theatrical weezes and huffs of annoyance. He does not notice her lay her crayon down and rest her head in her hands. He has escaped and is burrowing deep into his conscience, beyond reason and knowledge and responsibility, into another world, another universe. From this other dimension a hand reaches out, spanning the unfathomable chasm between fantasy and reality, grasps a pink pastel and fills the dreary landscape with color.

He realizes that only in pain can relief be found. That only in brutality is there peace. And only in chaos can beauty blossom. So he does not dread these kindergarten mornings. Locked in the block with these five year old prisoners. These leeches, these troublemakers. These innocents with criminal minds. For only in their midst, in the calamity of their childhood frustations, only when the door is shut and the clock is ticking...

Only then can he truly escape.