Bran Is Manna in Prison

Bran is manna in prison. Neutral-to-good taste, recognizable as food, and the medicine that keeps you regular. If you’re not vigilant, the whole experience can be one big bloat—stagnation.

Women lie in their beds with makeshift eye masks of sweatshirts or towels to block the light. The one window with moving air sits just outside the sleeping area; the cardio machines gather dust.

Lack of circulation—heart, air, digestion—leaves inmates to, as Octavio Paz put it, “kill time, kill life.” For many, the burden that brought them here, coupled with the stigma, is too heavy to bear.

Heads hang. Eyes drop. Hope follows.

To stay in motion—this is the how. Inside of prison, that means going against inertia. This is the beginning and end of rebirth, repeating until one wakes up, not despite being here but because of being here.

The pressure either crushes you or makes the diamond. What will this consciousness do with this
one wild and precious scene? How will I extract the jewel from this moment?

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