Wednesday....hmph, another gloomy day. Suspicious, grey clouds hoovering over the courtyard, yet I could feel the sheering heat force sweat from my brow. There must be a storm coming. I wish there were days like in my daughter's storybooks, or like mine when I was a kid. Just endless rounds of beautiful, blue skies, untouched by industry and grey clouds. But hey, I shouldn't expect anything remotely beautiful, idyllic or innocent in a prison. The closest thing to that was seeing a poster of some actress or tattoos of past and present lovers, but there were soon vulgarised by the disgusting banter made by the others. Maybe having a daughter makes you think like that.
Rollcall hasn't began yet, so I like to sit and write down my thoughts about anything in my free time, like I'm doing now. Thank the Gods, I'm allowed to even write this words. The guards were certainly surprised that a prisoner would request one. Typical prisoners would be content with chewing gum, cigarettes or regular 'visits' from wives, girlfriends, boyfriends and/or mistresses. I'm the only book person too. That seems to shock the guards too. People from the slums don't read.
I find the only way to keep your mind together or to stop yourself from going crazy and killing anybody (and actually having a reason to be locked up in here) is to write it all down within the pages of a diary. I'm trying to rebuild any shred of dignity I have left. Writing is therapy. My thoughts, feelings and emotions can be written down and no foreign power can do anything about it, if I was careful enough.