I'm a husk, a vessel empty of warmth, hope, or gaiety. I am in a barren expanse of nothingness surrounded by a barrier that prevents the ingress of anything good. I ponder the ability of man to inflict pain on those less fortunate than himself. The answers that come to me are redolent with shame, and I choke back the tears that constrict my throat. To allow the feelings to be released would be perceived by my cellie as weak.
Most people are inherently good.
I believe this. The mystery I must solve is what I have done in this or other lives to cause me to suffer. A casual observer may say I suffer because I committed a crime. But this is uninformed hyperbole, for no one has walked in my shoes, neither before the crime nor since. This approach is more convenient than trying to understand.