There he was, sitting in the corner of the prison cell. Hunched over, knees pulled into his chest. Rocking, back and forth. He seemed in despair. Ticking over mentally and a little audibly. His lips were parting as if thoughts were becoming softly spoken tones. But unknowingly.

And you'd try. You'd try to break him free. You knew his crimes didn't add up to his experience. And were they even crimes? Were excessive thoughts enough to warrant a cell? Was that enough to put such walls and bars between society and one of its own?

And who was to blame? Was it the one stuck in inner turmoil, or the environment he was born into? Who's right, and who's wrong? And is anyone ever wrong if it's all by the same artist, using the same canvas? And did he ever have a choice, a true voice, if he was never able to escape the noise?

I believe not. So I try. I offer my hand. I leave my comforts and visit him. I enter the prison and try to help. Kind words. Kind actions. Selfless intentions. I try to show him he's not alone. And I feel grace work through me.

He stops rocking. He looks at me and our eyes meet. I see through the bars, and into his world. But does he see me? Can he leave his torment and meet me on neutral ground? I offer a hand anyway.

And for a moment, he reaches out. He sees me and he wants to connect. Because we are the same. Both products of our environment. Both but a whisper in the wind. And he knows me as the spirit in me meets the spirit in him.

But he pulls back and the walls grow bigger. The bars thicker. And he no longer sees me. His mind ticks. It races away and with it he is lost again. Another brother locked away. Once again a prisoner in his own mind.

Give me ten good men and some climbing spikes. I'll impregnate the bitch.