~ THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM ~
By Chris Deraleau
~ A continuation ~
Trumbull correctional. 3 a.m.. awake as always at that time, up at my desk writing. for myself, these times of night contain more then most would know. in these precious times during incarceration, i can walk into the treeline of my mindset, through the dense woods, into a shining type of moonlight, a silver light that drowns the noise of the everyday chaos any given prison has to offer, and there, in some type of mental clearing of immense clairity, i become a beautiful and wise creature of the night. i feel myself change, deeply and knowingly it is the weight of those heavy days in these moments i am able to set aside, and the raspy inner howl from this tattooed throat reaches every single full moon of my memory.... and then... i am become myself.. in this time, i am able to divorce myself from everything that binds to me to the pain of a life interrupted from its very genisis, everything that removes me from the forever this sorrow of mine intends to become as my ever after.. then, i am at a very brilliant cinema, watching a movie that makes the welling tears in my eyes that hold so much weight and mean so much, for once actually fall onto a beautiful dreamscape instead of onto another cold floor, in another cold prison cell during another impossible stream of time in this thing we call life.. the tears matter, the floor is not a floor, it is a stage, it is a concert hall, it is a moment in time just as magnificent as a John Fitzgerald Kennedy speech when the American dream did still have a ribcage to protect its breathing lungs, lungs that breathed truth into promise, and hope into true American dreaming hearts. these are the moments where i am free.. i long for the day to turn in so the night can fall upon me once again.... i do so long for the night... i wait for her each day as a dreamy eyed lover does wait for his love to appear, flawless and so beautiful, or as an audience awaits the first colourful sound of string in an orchestral procession.. oh, how i wait.. i was listening to music low, at night i do listen to movie soundtracks, hans zimmer, maco beltrami, and creators of the like.. i suppose it could have been something else in my ear besides these tracks, when there was a knock at my door.. "we got one, 15 west. ill be back in 5" i gave the officer a slight nod of the head, and as they disappeared i looked up and stretched my hands to the stars of the moonlit dreamworld i was suddenly pulled from, and as the moonlight faded and the stars dimmed from my mind, the familiar smell of instant coffee replaced my night world with the more rigid constructs of this concrete beast i existed in. i felt the animal breath deep... "prison. is someone hurt badly? is someone sick.? did someone take their final breath on the floor of a cold, dust ridden cell, so far away from the time where their mother held them, a fresh baby in her arms, tears in her eyes, dreams of hope, life fulfilled, and memories... did that dream finally just end for one of these men?" these were the thoughts i would have when i was pulled from my cell at nights like these. one of my handles at trumbull, was the blood-spill trustee, there was no way to know what i was ever stepping into once i walked into a cell. my duty was to clean up the blood or bodily fluids from men after a situation occurred at Trumbull correctional. any time of day... any time of night. i honestly enjoyed this job, i had many, but this particular duty at times made life more colourful. a thought provoking job it was indeed. many nights i did this. stories i do have. one stands out.... it went something like this... TO BE CONTINUED.......