Still can't sleep for thinking of all the homeless out there. Ones that were like me -- lost, helpless, wounded, without anywhere to go home to. The ones without families to coddle them like mine. I become deluded thinking I must live like that -- my cross to bear. I never talk about it in my real life much for not wanting to upset Rosa or my family. I write about it in excess though -- grand lists of preparations. Determined this time to 'do it right'. Visiting Campmor and looking for hours at all the survival and camping gear I could order. I keep thinking I am far too intelligent to live like your average homeless person. That I have the skills and knowledge to make it a pleasurable experience -- an adventure. Like Don Quixote tackling a windmill, I want to tackle my own deluded dreams of living sans home. It is a fitting aphorism for my madness.
I lay there in bed a moment ago. Thinking. Thoughts of people in sleeping bags in the bottom of doorways and alleys. People with sheets of cardboard for a bed. Great throngs of sweaty, unwashed men grouped together like sardines in a tin inside Rescue Missions. The eyes of sad children, hungry and homeless. Worried mothers, helpless, not sure of what to do next. Their lives being blown like feathers in the wind. Vulnerable and many of them harmless, the waste product of societies madness and avarice. Many of them sleeping out of doors to not be institutionalized like me when I was homeless. The mentally ill -- fearful of medications because that is the way, 'the solution', the convenient way society deals with the insane.
Bleary eyed, I leave Rosa in the bed to come and write about it. To get my thoughts down and out of my head with the hopes that by doing so I will get some release from these images that haunt me. I harbor a keen sensitivity and empathy for people experiencing such plights. I think I shall go curl up in the bed with a novel -- like all those nights I spent as a child under the covers with a flashlight trying not to disturb my brother or alert my parents. That would always make me sleep so well afterwards.
I sometimes think there is nowhere for me to go to get comfort and solace — no base, no point of reference for me in the whole universe, how utterly alone I am in my madness, I can't continue on. That is when I write. It is like standing at the edge of a precipice and almost losing your footing, you can't go on, your mind won't let you. I try and shake loose these thoughts -- the precipice being my urge to be homeless again and dwelling on such predicaments. Writing seems to help -- the balm that soothes my wounds.