I’m laid up in bed, lazy, mindlessly flipping thru channels, feeling sorry for myself and recalling the million and one things I’d done differently.
As if on cue, my cubie says, in his 2 packs a day smokers voice, “Man, you cant think all that coulda shoulda woulda stuff,” thinking about his own shit. His dad just died. “You’ll tear yourself up over it, y’know? It’s like, what are you gonna do?”
It’s crazy how often what you need to hear is actually verbalized by the person you’re sharing a cell with. Like synchronicity. That’s all the reassurance I need, to keep plowing ahead, working on the little things that make up the grand plan. Fuck it, let the cards fall where they may and go from there. I’m already in prison, it can’t get much worse.