People keep finding these entries in the middle and asking me where the story starts. Fair enough — they weren’t published in order, and that’s on me. So here it is: every Dear Diary entry, in the order it was meant to be read. Start at the first one and walk with me.
— Which entry hit you hardest? Tell me in the comments — I read every one. Subscribe and the next entry comes straight to your inbox.
Dear Diary,
I never planned for you to become a book. You were supposed to be a place where I could put the thoughts I couldn’t always say out loud. A place where I could dump my frustrations, questions, fears, hopes, ambitions, mistakes, memories, and dreams.
Some days I write because I’m angry. Some days I write because I’m lonely. Some days I write because I’m trying to understand myself. And some days… I write because I have something to say.
For years, I’ve lived behind walls, locked doors, steel bars, and restrictions. But I’ve learned something about incarceration: A body can be cuffed without a mind being cuffed.
So I write. I write about freedom because I want it. I write about love because I miss it. I write about God because I’m searching. I write about justice because I question it. I write about my past because I can’t change it. And I write about my future because I refuse to let my past have the final word.
These pages aren’t meant to make me look perfect. I’m not perfect. You’ll find some contradictions in this joint. You’ll find anger. You’ll find humor. You’ll find pain. You’ll find faith. You’ll find profanity. You’ll find poetry hiding inside paragraphs and philosophy hiding inside jokes.
You’ll find the man I was, the man I am, and the man I’m fighting to become.
Sometimes I’ll sound like a philosopher. Sometimes I’ll sound like a gangsta. Sometimes I’ll sound like a man in chains. Sometimes I’ll sound like a free man.
And maybe that’s the point. Because I’m all of those things at once.
Dear Diary is my conversation with myself, but I’m inviting you to listen. Every entry begins with an affirmation because I need to remind myself that circumstances don’t get the final word. Every entry ends with a question because I’m still searching.
Searching for answers about freedom. About love. About justice. About God. About purpose. About who the hell I’m supposed to become after spending so much of my life behind these walls.
I don’t expect you to agree with everything I say.
I don’t even agree with everything I’ve written. That’s what makes this a diary. These pages capture a man in motion. A man in thought. A man healing. A man fighting.
So come inside. Not the prison. My thoughts.
These are the thoughts that live between the walls. These are the questions that keep me tossing and turning in my sleep. These are the dreams that refuse to die.
This is my ink on white paper. This is my struggle. This is my freedom. This is my philosophy.
Dear Diary… I’m finally letting you read me.
Peace
Tomorrow, all twelve entries in order: read “Dear Diary: Every Entry, In Order” — korymcclary.com/2026/11/10/dear-diary-every-entry-in-order/
Midlife Crisis
I truly believe that I’m in the midst of a midlife crisis. Everything is coming into focus.
Like a long, flat, tree-lined vista, I see things clearly now.
However, the truths I once held to be self-evident are now obscure and ambiguous. Perhaps those truths are waning.
Truths turning into lies told to me.
Can a truth become a lie?
Or am I falsely learning, indoctrinating myself with bullshit?
I don’t know.
What I do know is that everything I was taught up until this point in my life has gotten me nowhere. I want to believe that the new knowledge I’ve been pouring into myself will guide me toward a healthier life.
But I’m still unhealed, clinging to unhealthy habits.
Some of the old things I’ve learned have become so deeply ingrained in me that I struggle to separate them from who I am.
And that scares me.
Because what if I’m wrong? What if I’m embarking on a path of unrighteousness?
But I’m only following myself.
I’m a good person.
Yet, according to the truths I was taught, the good die young, while these grimy niggas live a long time.
And no matter how hard I try, I cannot be a grimy nigga.
So, yeah.
I’m 38 and having a midlife crisis.
To be or not to be.
Good or grimy.
Kory, Shamar, or Blaq.
It’s a wrap for Hussain!
Blaq is a person who doesn’t fit. He’s not the person he needs to be to survive.
Blaq is a façade. A mask I created for the streets to believe that, if necessary, I’ll black the fuck out!
But that mask is what got me here.
He is not me!
But he is.
But he is not.
To let Blaq go is to be free.
Yet I’ve carried Blaq for so long that he’s become a part of me. He’s woven into my identity, stitched into the fabric of who I thought I needed to be.
And now I’m questioning whether the person I created to survive is the very person preventing me from living.
I’m at a crossroads in my life, standing in the middle of traffic, hesitant to move forward and tread my own path.
— Where are you in yours? Tell me in the comments — I read every one. If this piece hit you, hit Like and subscribe so the next one lands in your inbox.
Affirmation: My time may have been taken from me, but my voice, my mind, and my will to be free still belong to me.
Dear Diary,
In 2008, when I was first arrested in Alabama, I believed I’d be home in no time. Seventeen years, eight months, and seven days later, I’m not even close to finishing a 130 year bid.
Damn.
Who ever would have thought this? Nobody thinks about the time before they commit the crime. So I don’t understand why judges, legislators, and the criminal justice system insist on using deterrence as a reason to sentence people so harshly.
Over the years, I’ve watched dozens of guys from my community come through this joint. Friends. Family. The sons of men I once ran with. Even rivals. My 130-year sentence didn’t deter them. So what exactly is being deterred?
To me, the aggravating factor of “deterrence” feels like a sham. Instead of deterring crime, these extreme sentences can deter people from exercising their right to go to trial. That fear is real. The fear of being whacked by the judge’s gavel can make a person think twice about fighting their case.
If I had taken the 22 year deal I was offered, I’d be on my way home. But in 2008, I was 22 years old. There was no way I could see 22 years away. Shit, I couldn’t see past my nose.
And that’s what I’m trying to explain today, sometimes accountability doesn’t arrive in the moment. Sometimes it takes years for a person to understand what they’ve done, who they’ve hurt, who they’ve become, and what their choices really meant.
Accountability can take years to catch up with a person. But the criminal justice system doesn’t seem to respect that basic human reality. It can be a remorseless machine, taking years from men and women without a second thought. As if time is something we can simply get back.
But we can’t. Once a year is taken, it’s gone. Once a birthday passes behind these walls, you don’t get it back. Once a child grows up without you, you can’t rewind their childhood. Time doesn’t do refunds. And maybe that’s the part that hurts the most. If we could have accepted accountability early in the game, whether innocent or guilty, our punishments would have been less harsh.
Maybe.
I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m tired. Tired of sitting in this cell. Tired of waiting. Tired of watching time pass while I’m expected to somehow remain hopeful.
Sometimes I wonder, What’s a nigga supposed to do? What could I possibly do to set myself free?
I cry. I pray. I pray. I cry. I write. I read. I read. I write. I even shout with all my might.
But still… The doors of this cell remain locked tight. So I keep searching for the key.
Maybe the key is in a courtroom. Maybe it’s in a letter. Maybe it’s in a book. Maybe it’s in these words I write with this pen. Maybe it’s in me.
Dear Diary, after seventeen years, eight months, and seven days, what does a man have to do to prove that he deserves another chance at freedom?
Peace,
Kory “Blaq” McClary
Affirmation: I may fall, but I will always rise with a new plan, a stronger mind, and another reason to fight for my freedom.
Dear Diary,
What’s the deal?
Sometimes I feel like I’m not doing enough to get myself free. Then I ask myself, What more can I do? What else can I try to achieve my freedom? Maybe I need to write more advocates. More organizations. More people who might be willing to look at my case and help me navigate these legal woes.
I’ve tried before. At one point, I actually found some rhythm with an organization called Centurion. We communicated through letters for about two years. They seemed genuinely interested. They asked relevant questions about my case, and eventually, they took a closer look at what I had been screaming about. They saw the injustices I was talking about. For a while, I was convinced they were going to help me get back into that courtroom.
I was wrong.
Eventually, I received a letter telling me they couldn’t help me. When that letter hit, I was crushed. I had become so high on the possibility of their help that when the possibility disappeared, I sank low. Real low.
But I got back up. And maybe that’s what life is about. You fall, You get back up. You dust yourself off. And you get back to it. That experience discouraged me, but it also taught me something: I have to keep knocking on doors.
So maybe I need to write more institutions. More advocates. More organizations. Maybe the next letter I send finds the right person at the right time. I have to keep trying. Because I have to get out of here by any means necessary.
This place is inhumane, and it seems to become more so with every passing day.
It’s been eighteen years since I last felt the breath of freedom. Eighteen years.
Dear Diary, what more does a man need to be free besides being a part of humanity? Should a man be condemned to die in an unfree state? I’m not judging. I’m just wondering.
And while I wonder, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep learning. I’ll keep knocking. I’ll keep fighting. Because if one door closes, I have to find another one. And if there isn’t another door? I’ll build one.
Dear Diary, spread my words across the earth and into the world:
Kory McClary is ready to be free.
Peace,
Kory
Daily Affirmation: “I will wield my words as weapons of truth, fighting for freedom and justice with unyielding resolve.”
—
Dear Diary,
Complacency is the worst trait to have. Are you crazy—content and satisfied with a cell? Appeased by a TV, a tablet, and a job detail? Don’t forget that everything besides freedom is hell. These appeasements are mere vessels of the devil, designed to keep us dwelling in misery, forgetting that we were born to exist free.
Ignorance is bliss? If being ignorant of my inalienable rights as a human is heaven, then give me hell—a book and a pen. With them, I can pour my pain onto white sheets with black ink and free myself from this misery. Knowledge is power, and the pen is mightier than the sword.
Are you crazy, complaining? Arm yourself with your sword—your pen—and stain the paper with red ink until you meet your Lord.
Give me freedom or give me death. My pen—I call it my tech-nology—is so hot that when I unleash its power, the fire burns blue. Though I’ve yet to stain the white paper with red ink, I’m still alive. With all these books I read, I’m becoming wiser to the endless lies, tricks, and disguises of the devil.
And if I don’t reach the destination my eyes long for, I’m writing down the plan for the next man to pick up and carry forward. Freedom is not a dream; it’s a fight.
Our battle is ongoing. Pick up your book, turn your pen into a weapon, and fire until the war is won.
For, he is a slave who does not read. And he is no warrior if he does not write. Be wary of those who speak like us but whose actions betray their words.
We are the leaders of this struggle. Our voices cannot and will not be silenced—for the pen cannot be silenced.
Dear Diary, can the fight for freedom ever truly end, or does each generation have to pick up the pen and carry it forward?
Affirmation: I am healing at my own pace, growing in silence, and preparing for the freedom I know is mine.
Dear Diary,
It’s been a while.
But sometimes, a while is a good thing.
Time creates space. And a lack of space breeds familiarity. Familiarity can make people forget your value.
Not saying you’d ever disrespect me, Diary, but I can’t give you all of me.
At least not so fast.
Be patient with me.
My feelings and emotions need healing. You say you can never heal what I never reveal?
Well…
I’ll reveal it slowly.
So you should know, a lot has changed since I last expressed myself between your lines—and somehow, a lot has remained the same.
For starters, I’m still in this joint, toiling to be free.
My clemency petition?
I don’t know if it’s still under consideration. The last governor left office without signing it. So now I’m hoping the new governor shows a nigga some mercy.
But while I wait, I work.
I’m still writing like crazy.
I’ve published a few more news articles. And a couple of weeks ago, I self-published my second book, For Poetry.
And that shit is dope.
I’m getting better at the logistics of self-publishing, too. Every book teaches me something new—not just about writing, but about building something that belongs to me.
My next goal?
For Fiction, Book Two by October.
Then I’m giving everything I’ve got to For Freedom.
Hopefully, by this time next year, it’ll be sitting on bookshelves instead of sitting on top my desk.
I’m also reaching my hands beyond the walls, trying to get published in news publications outside of Prison Journalism Project.
We’ll see how that goes.
But one thing I know for sure:
I’m still fighting for my freedom.
And that fight doesn’t stop until I’m free.
And when I get free?
I’m coming back for the guys.
It’s personal.
This system is a dirty beast. But David didn’t beat Goliath because Goliath was weak. He beat him because David had faith, courage, and the right weapon in his hand.
With the help of the Lord, I believe I can slay this motherfucker, too.
I’m waiting on one more factor before I make my move toward checkmate in that courtroom.
I pray it falls into place soon.
Until then, I’m still jailing.
Reading.
Writing.
Working.
Thinking.
Planning.
Keeping my shit together.
Oh, Diary…
The fight never ends.
The struggle is always in effect.
And no matter how long or how hard they try to keep me trapped, there ain’t no giving up in me.
I’m always plotting and planning—not just for myself, but for the betterment of my people.
Because freedom isn’t just about getting out.
It’s about what you do once you get out.
And when that day comes, I intend to have something worth walking into.
Peace,
Blaq
Dear Diary, what if the space between where I am and where I’m going is exactly where I’m supposed to become the man who can handle freedom?
Affirmation: My growth is a quiet revolution, and every lesson I learn unlocks a greater version of me.
Dear Diary,
I haven’t written in a while. I’ve been low for a while.
Reading wild, crazy, un-in-love, wishing on a star for a dove to appear from the walls of this cell.
I know it may seem impossible.
Nothing is impossible. I’ve seen a man disappear into thin air and come back like nothing happened… Facts!
For the dove, I’ll wait—because patience is a virtue. And Allah said:
“Follow the revelation sent to you. And be patient until Allah gives judgment. And He is the best of judges.”
So patient I am, waiting for my destiny to be free.
My poetry is deep—I know.
I’m in a liberating flow, unshackling parts of me I didn’t even know were arrested.
I’m unlocking new levels of self and discovering the wealth of self.
So my absence from putting this black ink on white paper has not been in vain.
Oh Diary, I’m elevating quietly.
Chipping at my weaknesses loudly.
I can hear my old friends sigh when they hear old parts of me hit the floor.
A friend is a friend for how long?
Until friction causes distance or swords are drawn?
My entire being is a new thought, born from a decades-long friction between me and myself:
To be or not to be Kory McClary?
I be HIM because he be’s me.
And with that said—when swords are drawn, murders occur.
And it’s back to Kory McClary the writer… Blaq is dead.
Dear Diary,
Do I write my life away and reveal the secrets of me, or stay silent and remain unfree?
Affirmation: Every step I take, no matter how small, is a step toward understanding my purpose.
Dear Diary,
What’s the highest elevation of the self?
Is it wealth or glory?
Is the highest elevation of the self even a true story?
Like, is it possible?
Sometimes I wonder if I’m a philosopher, searching for the truth. Religion says searching is a form of Lucifer, but I’m just a questioner—a quester.
I don’t know.
I want my tomorrow to be better than my today.
Sometimes I fall.
Sometimes I stay in place.
Sometimes I elevate.
At the end of the day, I wonder: what progress was made? What even determines progress?
Is it the accumulation of wealth?
The preservation of health?
Or the pursuit of the highest elevation of the self?
Dear Diary,
I get confused by the rules of life.
To change the world is to change my sight.
Am I right, or am I wrong?
Left, or right?
I followed the path—and I was wrong.
I abandoned the ship; swimming took courage and strength.
But I’m strong.
Dear Diary,
Allow my legacy to reach the stars and beyond eternity. Allow the universe to embrace me.
What defines the highest elevation of the self—success in the world, or peace within it?
Affirmation: I may be tired, but at least I’m not the guy who gets dunked on in footsketball.—
Dear Diary,
Since I’ve been working in the cookhouse, I’ve been missing a lot of yard time. Yard goes out at 8:00 AM, and honestly, I’m too exhausted to make it.
I work from 10:00 AM until about 5:30 or 6:00 PM every day. By the time I get back, take a shower, and lock into my cell, it’s usually 15 minutes to 7:00 PM.
I’ll spend some time grinding on the jawn until 1 or 2 in the morning. Then I pass out. So yeah, mornings? Not my strong suit.
Every night I lie to myself, saying, “Tomorrow, I’m making it to yard.” And every morning, I wake up like, “Yeah… maybe next time.” It’s disappointing, though, because I need that workout. Sweating it out helps me stay healthy, keeps the stress down, and gives me a moment to just breathe fresh air—if you can even call it that in here.
But, man, this cookhouse gig is stealing my energy and my creativity. I’m ready to throw in the towel. Not literally, though—those towels are hard to come by. Anyway, the cookhouse isn’t even the focus of this entry,
Diary. I finally made it to the gym today, and let me tell you, running up and down the court with these young dudes felt like sweet freedom… until the bruises set in. Basketball in Trenton isn’t basketball; it’s footsketball. It’s not a game—it’s war.Now my body is screaming at me, every muscle reminding me of those missed mornings in the yard.
But honestly? The exhaustion is worth it. There’s something about the sweat, the heavy breathing, and even the occasional elbow to the ribs that makes me feel alive.
Dear Diary,I am hurtin’.—
Is it still called a “victory lap” if you’re limping the whole way?
