Today I reviewed the food that my family sent me for the Christmas special order. I am looking forward to rationing that against the worst options on the menu.
Something is clicking while I breathe while laying on my left side. I can feel one of my ribs responding with it. Sneezing sent a sharp pain on top of the usual ache I have been intentionally avoiding in my journal, but feel compelled to document now. I had found myself positioned up against a door that lead between two housing units when the guards called us to be shackled and loaded onto multiple large shiny buses. I wasn't sure where we would be transported but tried to pick a spot for an old acquaintance to sit next to me toward the rear where a guard keeps a seat on reserve which tends to deter other inmates from preferring to sit near. The bus leaves without filling with inmates and the driver accelerates to an alarming speed. The smooth plastic seats are uncomfortable and slippery as we pass through an intersection with directional lights clearly indicating not to. The driver and the bus are heading for an inevitable disaster. When the bus jumps the curb and strikes the large stone wall I am already braced for the impact as well as I can be but wished I wasn't shackled and definitely wished there was more cushion or padding. It would be nice to have... a sleeping bag? I see the glass from the windshield shatter into its spider web of tiny rectangles as the impact simultaneously turns the bus over sideways. The moment of weightlessness visits for a split second while everything orients itself in a spin that drops the speeding bus on its side with a tremendous crash that erupts all of the windows of the side that impacted the ground into a blizzard of glass. Standing in the now tipped over bus I manage to slip the waist restraint down and off but it remains attached to the cuffs on my waist. I use it to hook the window frame above me and climb out of the side of the bus now facing the sky. A crowd of people is gathering and I lay on the steel panel of the bus and look at the sky. It feels like they must call them the Heavens because when they take them away from you then your prayers won't make it there. The guards are yelling to account for all the inmates and I slide off the bus. We are directed into the nearest building in an attempt to contain us but the crowd has taken such interest that an overwhelming number of people has followed us in. People are trying to help by tending to our cuts and scrapes. While we wait I ask a few female inmates how long they will be locked up. Their inability to tend their wild hair is the first thing that clues me in. "I know this is a dream." "What are you talking about?" one replies. Just because you disguise yourself does not mean I don't recognize my witches. The people start to take on fanciful old style clothing like a large masquerade ball. Okay ladies. want to see what fancy looks like in my dream? They laugh in delight. Although inside, the light of the sun becomes brilliant and perfect. Bouquets of flowers swell into massive dense monuments. The walls, furniture, and architecture become elaborately complex and stenciled with gold and silver that shine in the sun. A man seated at the counter to welcome visitors looks at me in surprise as he realizes it is me. This is my doing. This is my dream. The expansive marbled floors echo with my steps as the clack of the guards baton snaps my attention. That damn painfully white light of the guard pointing his light in my cell is what instantly dissolves my vision. 11:30pm. Count was at 9:30. Less than two hours of sleep. I was reading an old book that said that remembering dreams is the byproduct of failing to sleep soundly. The sound sleep I get is minimal. I am always so so tired and with nothing better to do can not ever "finish" sleeping. If my back didn't hurt? If the guards would let me? If other inmates would be quiet? I have been working on letters and not journal entries the last few days. Dreamt of making food with my kids the other day. I managed to not cry after it. That was good.
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aboutThese are the journal entries of Zachariah Anderson. All entries are originally handwritten by Zach and then transcribed on his behalf. Please note that occasional misspellings and grammar errors may be fixed during transcription for the sake of making the entries easier to read and sensitive information may be redacted. Archives
July 2024
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