WELCOME TO MY LIFE, AGAIN

It's Saturday morning and I'm in the dayroom, chewing on a green apple for breakfast. The soundtrack for the day was Post Malone's "I Fall Apart." My mood...I didn't know? You see, we came off of another annual lockdown and while in my bunk, I contemplated my existence. Now, when I finally sauntered out of my cell, I'm wondering if my shadow would be seen like I'm a freaking groundhog--more weeks of miserable overcast. I felt like this when we learned Sincere Allah took his life. He made it home after a lengthy incarceration, but something in the world broke him. F$&K! I didn't know him personally, but being incarcerated in America, we had this brotherhood that made his passing hurt...simply because he was one of us.

I turned my attention towards my education. My class was in Western Civilization. I learned about Babylon, but as I did, I'm eyeing the men around me who whispered amongst their peers as our professor taught us. She noticed but didn't cease her speech on our lessons from the past. I scribbled down notes as the rain pelted the window. I shifted my gaze, watching through the chain-linked fences that engulfed my world, catching a fleeting glimpse of a speeding vehicle that dashed away from us...where though?

Most days, I sat in the dayroom to avoid being in the cell with my celly. He's miserable, always: "These guys are filling up a bucket with ice--he sighed--I can't wait for them (correction officers) to come and take them." I never asked why he was against everybody, because the answers were sad: he only saw himself as the one who should have all the ice in his cup. So I avoided him like the plague... but Ramutu informed me that I'm traumatized by my celly's moody disposition. I tended to agree, when I took a breath, anticipating what nonsense my celly would pout about when I strolled into the cell.

The choking stench of burning paper had made its return. We had junkies getting high on Paper Crack (K-2). I watched as they emerged from their cells, staggering around like zombies that had taken two shotgun blasts to their kneecaps. They carried cups of coffee that spilled with each inebriated step. We shook our heads as Twin covered his mouth, complaining that those who smoked that crap get cancer: rectum, lung and brain. I turned up the volume on my tablet and shrunk into the drumbeat of Millyz's "Benny Blanco."

You gotta find ways to combat this madness. If not, Paper Crack could be your escape, or possibly gambling on sporting events, or even hollering at gays who constantly received anonymous letters from those curious about same sex copulation. Another song arrived and I'm closing my eyes, wishing I had those rappers' talents to compose a song that impacted me as they did.

Bill, whom I had known for two years, arrived in my peripheral, gauging if he should disturb me. He did. A former friend who was now free sent me a picture of him out in the real world. This was something that made Bill jealous...envious...miserable? I didn't conclude an exact answer, because Bill wanted me to tell our mutual friend to reach out to him. I nodded and assured him I would...not. The truth was, when I showed Bill the picture, he didn't recognize our mutual friend; this was made aware to me by Bill's celly the previous evening.

I watched my celly depart from our cell. I moseyed upstairs to our apartment in the sky (top tier), deciding to create me some instant revenue. This came courtesy of my famous taffy. I made a batch for Tim--well, he returned, informing me he wanted another one. I clearly said, "I don't have any strawberry Kool-Aid left. Are you cool with another flavor?" He said he was, so I made him another batch. Well, he arrived and snapped when he saw orange taffy, not strawberry. Now he's being aggressive with me, so I matched his energy with my 5'11 " frame and 244 pounds. I told him he said one thing and now another, so I launched the money he paid for the second batch at him. Well, that calmed him down as he told me he would take it, then placed the money in my plastic chair. Simple-minded motherf$&kers never listen.

At night in the dayroom, I typed emails to family, then made calls, like to my baby sister, who was heading overseas. I would say I'm envious, but I'm not. Life outside was motivation--and to get there, I must transform from the mundane to something extraordinary; this was my mind developing beyond prison. That was why I sat at a stainless steel table, chewing on a green apple while thoughts arrived for my next big idea to pursue.

Music wrapped me in a mental shield as grown children sagged their shorts and discussed the mass shooting on the local news. I heard one of them say the shooter had to have a Drako because of the high body count. The volume on my tablet went up higher, blocking me from their shared madness on gun violence. Am I angry, sad, or confused? I'm smirking because the song that soothed my soul came on: Juelz Santana's "Who I Am."

This was my mood music--the one song that made me think about the man I am today. I used to shoot dice with sagging shorts and a commissary net bag with snacks I gambled on for more chocolate chip cookies and Shabang potato chips. That made me happy to be that guy...no, N word. That's the truth, because I wanted that life as I prayed to the dice god to roll out 4, 5, 6 for me. Now...wow, I'm in the dayroom reading about the Silk Road, where China and many other travelers traded what they grew and created with copper and steel. My mind didn't want anything but being in the world again, and it wouldn't occur if I were still thinking like an N word with penitentiary-rich aspirations. Nah, that's never me. That was why I could answer the question I presented at the start of all this: My mood. I'm alive and happy.

Nothing in this world could dictate where I'm going but me; that's why I'm happy. I had an endgame and what it'll take to make it so: Hard work. What about you?