My name is Saint Solomon. Presently, I am an author, essayist, lecturer and NY Amsterdam Newspaper contributor.Unfortunately, my life hasn’t always been this straight forward and productive. The majority of my formative years were spent withering away in dark and lonely prison cells
Fortunately, while withering away in that pen, I learned the power of a more potent pen. And, that particular pen, not only kept me out of the pen, but also inspired scores of other brothers to pick up a pen and write their way to the right side of the law.
In the broadest of strokes, solitary confinement is synonymous to being buried alive. Imagine a hundred separate prisoners, trapped in a hundred different cages; but all locked inside the same mausoleum.
One body at a time. Firstly, the sentencing arbitrator eulogizes the burial. Next the pall bearers or, better yet, the gate keepers hauls the body to its final resting place. Finally, they dump the body into a hell hole that becomes home until a higher authority resurrects the remains.
I guess this is called Prisoner’s Purgatory because only God knows if the sinner will either expiate or proliferate his/her sins. It has been the experience of this writer that if your orbit consists of ninety-nine sinners, you’re bound to be that hundredth one. If numbers don’t lie then all of us who are imprisoned are all hell-bound.
Nevertheless, this is our fate. Sooner than later, you begin to lose track of time. There is no day or night. There is no sun or moon. There is just a light. No OFF or ON switch. Just an eternal light. An unblinking eye that stares continuously. It watches you 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. It knows when you’re sleeping. It knows when you’re awake. It knows when you’re relieving yourself. It knows when you’re showering. The light is like God because it knows everything.
Noise is your only interaction with normalcy. Keys jangling signals that a gate keeper is near. Sounds of screams combined with grunts and heavy breathing means a convicted sinner is involved in a physical confrontation with four or five turn keys.
How does one escape from the simmering heat of this hellfire? How does one avoid this eternal damnation?
An aging lifer donates: The Autobiography of Malcolm X or Manchild in the Promised Landor Makes Me Wanna Holla or the soon to be released: Three Strikes and I’m Out by Saint Solomon.