A dialectical as the white elephant of an empty room.

I read a letter from a 28 year old "boy" in jail today. The letter was for someone else. It was given to me because within the letter, he asked if the words could be passed my way. When opening the letter, a post it note fell out. He had drawn a cartoon portrait of himself in blue ink standing in a jail cell holding two bars. Above his head, a tag on top with a question mark that read "Home?". My conversations and time spent with him were limited but I need to go visit him. Visitation, which is on Wednesdays, is a time I can make. Was I any different than he was at 28 in regard to wanting to be understood? Under desperate circumstances, would I not have done the same thing as a reaction to what I know I needed to save myself from falling in the same light? The push/pull is the overlap on how a messenger bag is treated/used/hidden/and ultimately discarded. When people find their way into the closing room long after both individuals have moved on, you'd have never guessed any of the words were ever passed. The letter, crumpled and disregarded into a ball then glued onto a canvas as a boulder being rolled up a mountain (in acryllic) by a man. The man, as Sisyphus up close, is no different than the boy's face on the post it. The internal monologue juxtaposed against all the logic in the world leaves him without words. This is the struggle for every single boy in their 20's. I can't help but to think there was something I could have done differently to help him.