“It has been 1,467 days. Without mind body connection. Without imagination. Without creativity. Without ideas becoming reality.

There is something in my mind that occurs when I write things down on paper. It makes it real. It makes it mine. It’s not typed on a keyboard, it is my handwriting, my thoughts, me. When that gotten taken away 4 years ago, our moral compass took us south.

Our original ancestors who became writers still known today have turned over in their grave. I wish to be in a grave, the afterlife couldn’t be this cruel.”

Beth put down the same pen she’s had for 4 years; she has never kept a pen this long. She reminisces about the feeling of finding a pen that wrote like silk as it glided along college-ruled notebook paper. She hopes she can feel that again one day. Until then, she will continue to be a justified criminal. She’ll write her tiny letters until she reaches her grave- the day she finds herself unable to ink her thoughts into reality she’ll know, she’s already dead.