Flashback, moments

On Being Homeless: A Fish Caught In Headlights

I can’t stop remembering those long, lonely, hollow-like walks to the seaside every night. Knowing that I should probably get some sleep but struggling. Knowing full well I could force it, a realisation that prevented me all together from making any serious attempt.

There are times when I miss the absolutely tremendous rattling of silence resounding so deeply inside my own head. It was a distraction from my real life problems. Like the impending madness of being homeless for another day. The fear of failing my best friend and my other friend. I can’t seem to get my head around the strangling nature of responsibility after responsibility, each stacking terrifyingly one on top of the other. However, it was a very simply equation indeed. All of which alluded to the incredibly mundane sum of surviving once again, another dreary day.

There are days where I wish I had done more. Not had been so darn soft. And then there are days where I can now see how hard I worked. But did it really take such a dire situation to call upon me to be more than just my placid self? Just to really get a grip on the person I am. Or, rather, the person I needed to become to live through a situation like that and come out the other side tall, strong and happy.

There will, of course, always be things I wish I could change. And perhaps things I wish had stayed with me. But overall I can say I’m happy enough to continue to live as the residual of what is left of that self. And more than that – to love the foundations as well. The foundations of which I can grow upon.

And so, I am proud. Even if only scarcely so.


On being alone

There were days when I couldn’t stand to be in the same room as them because everyday reminded me of how I alone I was. There was only so much I could do everyday to calm this nerve. I would wake up and have nightmares that I couldn’t soothe and so I would pick myself up and walk out as an act of defiance.

If I was gonna feel lonely then I was going to do it alone.

I would walk for hours on the beachfront, sit when my feet got tired and go back to them when the remnant of last nights nightmare would fade. It was my ritual that I never failed to do.

It became a habit that I tried to keep secret for a while. But the bags underneath my eyes would always betray me. It hurt to be awake but ever more so to sleep. The night didn’t seem so scary to me anymore. It was a beautiful and inviting. What was I to be scared of? I was already living through a hard time. How much harder could it get?

It didn’t matter to me that I was in shorts that allowed the bottom of my butt cheeks to peak through, or that I had a single thin grey jacket to cover my bare chest. Maybe I wanted something bad to happen. Just so that I could mark the day.

I no longer remember who that person was. I don’t know if I should care who that person was. I’m alive now and that should be all that matters.