October 1, 2014, marks the twelfth year of my incarceration, also the 35th year I have been made to endure the ugliness of such a horrid world. I assume I should be happy about this birthday, however, for I, it only serves as a reminder to the second cycle of pain nobody knows but me. On a day where joy is to be had I sit alone, confined twenty-three hours a day in a management unit battling days I wish I never knew. Nothing about October 1 has been welcoming. Each year I am greeted by more suffering. Each first day of October I am forced to look back on the previous 364 and call I can see are departed friends, unkept promises, and changed hearts.
Happiness, I forgot what it feels like.
In 2002, I was presented a thirty years long vacation in one of the coldest places known to man. No five-star hotels. No bottle of Moet and Rose. No hot sand. No clear waters. Just a cinder block prison cell.
This October 1 I wished for freedom.