🎞️ "Get busy living, or get busy dying."

And that’s how it came to pass, that on the second-to-last day of the job, the convict crew that tarred plate-factory in the spring of 49 wound up sitting in a row at ten o’clock in the morning, drinking icy-cold, Bohemia-style beer, courtesy of the hardest screw that ever walked a turn at Shawshank State Prison. The colossal prick even managed to sound magnanimous. We sat and drank with the sun on our shoulders, and felt like free men. Hell, we could have been tarring the roof of one of our own houses. We were the lords of all creation. As for Andy, he spent that break hunkered in the shade, a strange little smile on his face, watching us drink his beer. You could argue he’d done it to curry favor with guards. Or maybe make a few friends among us cons. Me? I think he did it just to feel normal again. If only for a short while.

Salvation lies within.

But I’m telling you, these walls are funny. First you hate them. Then you get used to them. Enough time passes … you get so you depend on them. That’s “institutionalized”.

…

They send you here for life. That’s exactly what they take. The part that counts, anyway.

I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. The truth is, I don’t want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can’t be expressed in words and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away. And for the briefest of moments, every last man at Shawshank felt free.

I had Mr. Mozart to keep me company … It was in here [mind]. And in here [heart]. That’s the beauty of music. They can’t get that from you. Haven’t you ever felt that way about music? … Here’s where it makes the most sense. You need it, so you don’t forget … Forget that there are places in the world that aren’t made out of stone. There’s something inside that they can’t get to, that they can’t touch. It’s yours … Hope.

Prison time is slow time. So you do what you can to keep going. Some fellas collect stamps. Others build matchstick houses. Andy built a library. Now he needed a new project. Tommy was it. It was the same reason he spent years shaping and polishing those rocks. The same reason he hung his fantasy girlies on the wall. In prison, a man will do most anything to keep his mind occupied.

I guess it comes down to a simple choice, really. Get busy living, or get busy dying.

Every man has his breaking point.

I’ve had some long nights in stir. Alone in the dark with nothing but your thoughts, time can draw out like a blade. That was the longest night of my life.

Sometimes it makes me sad, though, Andy being gone. I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they’re gone. I guess I just miss my friend.

Rehabilitated? Well, now, let me see. You know, I don’t have any idea what that means. … To me, it’s just a made-up word. A politician’s word so that young fellas like yourself can wear a suit and a tie and have a job. What do you really want to know? Am I sorry for what I did? There’s not a day goes by I don’t feel regret. Not because I’m in here or because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then. A young stupid kid who committed that terrible crime. I want to talk to him. I wanna try and talk some sense to him, tell him the way things are. But I can’t. That kid’s long gone. This old man is all that’s left. I gotta live with that. Rehabilitated? It’s just a bullshit word. So you go on and stamp your form, sonny, and stop wasting my time. Because to tell you the truth, I don’t give a shit.

40 years I’ve been asking permission to piss. I can’t squeeze a drop without say-so. There’s a harsh truth to face. No way I’m gonna make it on the outside. All I do any more is think of ways to break my parole, so maybe they’d send me back. A terrible thing to live in fear. Brooks Hatlen knew it, knew it all too well. All I want is to be back when things make sense, where I won’t have to be afraid all the time. Only one thing stops me. A promise I made to Andy.

Dear Red,

If you’re reading this, you’ve gotten out. And if you’ve come this far, maybe you’re willing to come a little further. You remember the name of the town, don’t you? I could use a good man to help me get my project on wheels. I’ll keep an eye out for you, and the chessboard ready. Remember, Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good things ever dies. I will be hoping that this letter finds you, and finds you well.

Your friend,

Andy

Get busy living, or get busy dying. That’s goddamn right. For the second time in my life, I’m guilty of committing a crime. Parole violation. Of course, I doubt they’ll toss up any roadblocks for that. Not for an old crook like me. I find I’m so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it’s the excitement only a free man can feel. A free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.