Dear Diary,
The sun sets behind the towering walls. Another day fades away, leaving behind the cold echoes of hopelessness. Today, the air in the cellblock hung a little too heavy. I can't help but think it's the weight of broken dreams.
Breakfast - the daily reminder of the bland existence we lead within these walls. The faces around me speak volumes – the eyes have seen too much, cheeks have been carved hollow by time and hardship, and the weary souls have resigned to the routine of incarceration.
The courtyard, a barren arena enclosed by towering walls, offered a brief respite from the suffocating confines of the cell. The harsh sun beat down upon us, scorching the ground beneath our tired feet. We shuffled through the dust, each step a reminder of the distance between us and the world outside. The laughter of the free carried on the wind, taunting us.
Today was visitation day, a bittersweet ritual that tore open wounds long scarred over. Faces pressed against the cold glass, hands reached out for a touch that could only be felt through the unforgiving barrier. The ache of separation, the silent exchange of words too painful to speak aloud.
No one visited me.
Evening descended like a shroud, casting the cellblock into darkness. I think some of the bulbs are failing again. The keep flickering like they are mocking our pleas for mercy. Like they are reciting fragments of poetry about shattered dreams using Morse code.
As the night deepens, the sounds of distant sobs and the occasional clatter of prison bars being tested echoes through the corridors. Sleep remains elusive. I don't wish to dream tonight. My dreams have lately become tools for the Devil to torture my soul.
My life feels like it's suspended in time.