I blink my eyes open. I am facing the same brick wall that greets me every morning. Then, there’s the smell: the air is thick with my cellmate’s flatulence, trapped in by the welded-shut window of our cell. 

I roll over to check the time. It’s 3 a.m., but the clock display is visible in the light from the overhead fixture that stays on no matter what time it is. It has become my habit to wake up at this time every morning, shortly before the sound of cell doors opening to allow morning kitchen workers to go to work.

The facility starts to stir between 5 and 6 a.m. Prisoners who are addicted to opiates are called to pick up their prison-provided daily fix of Suboxone. I try to get in a few more winks of sleep until the tier is let out for chow. 

When I hop down from the metal top bunk, my bare feet hit the cold concrete. After throwing on my faded green state-issued uniform and commissary-purchased sneakers, I emerge from the cell into the day hall, a bare common area where we play cards during our “free time.” 

I’ve been told that my unit at Buena Vista Correctional Facility, in Colorado, is the most populous in the state. It’s just me and more than 300 of my best buddies every single day. Sure, some come and go — fights break out, prompting transfers, or people go home. But as some things change, much remains the same, day after day.

Three times a day I make the trip to meals, walking single file against the right-hand wall. The food is the same rotating four-week menu, with little variety from week to week. This morning, it’s the familiar dry biscuits and flavorless, runny gravy. Blech. I always give these a pass, as I am fortunate enough to supplement my diet with some healthier and tastier, if more processed, food from commissary.

After leaving the chow hall, I am subjected to a random pat down search by a grumpy-looking guard. It could be worse than a morning frisk, though. We are also subject to random strip searches at any time. So at least I’m not squatting and coughing.

Since I’m off laundry duty today, I’ll spend most of my day in the common area playing one of the only two games in town: spades or pinochle. Programs are sparse, and we seldom, if ever, get the opportunity to participate in them.

Or else I’ll sit in my cell, where I’m lucky enough to have a TV and a family to write to. The days tend to all feel pretty alike here, but both the news and my mom assure me that time is indeed going by.