Any range or scale, as of capabilities, emotions, or moods

Twilight Days

For a period of time in my life I was homeless.  I thought I would share with you what it was like in the beginning months for me.

Twilight Days

There are days, moments, hours where I am listless in my being, in where I am at, in the beings that inhabit the space I am residing in and the surrealness of it all. Serenity and relaxation are not conducive to the atmosphere I am surrounded in, nor is there a sense of sanity, a sanity I fight to keep despite the swirling dysfunction that encapsulates me.

Engulfed by people who are trapped in their mental state. Sitting a few feet across from me with their intent eyes that do not move away, as they ramble outloud of their inner turmoils. I am at first amused and engaged in this morning ritual but time can rob the soul of this charm and I am left with an uncomfortable state of unsureness in how to approach this, the mentality of those who I share space with.  I must listen to fowl words, loud music to which I am not in a mood to be surrounded by as I awake to a new day, yearning for silence or the sounds of something peaceful. Luring me in is the stench of the old man who hasn’t showered for days and the mumblings of those who are ready to douse him in water and soap. I among them move to somewhere that I cannot vomit from the smell of his saturated life. I am Wondering why he does not choose to shower when he can? Continued wonderings are of the other older man sleeping on the side walk because his car was towed, 80 years old and he is barely able to walk nor see, he stumbles in, but not from drunkenness nor drugs but from the unbalanced night of cold concrete and dark unsurity. Where are the nights to rescue him, to take him to safety at this time of life when age is of that to which rest is imperative.

The sounds again of arguing, more slang words, this time I count how many times the overbearingly loud, don’t you dare get in my way, life is nothing but heartache woman says it, (what appears to be her favorite word, fuck), in a 5 minute period. 14 times, it has become a part of her, like her arms or hair.

Cigarette smoke looms in the air, into my lungs which I have not chosen for it to do so. I can barely watch as the pregnant woman puffs two more times and when asked why she does this, she replies, “It ain’t gonna hurt my baby”. I refrain from spouting statistics and information that could prove otherwise knowing this is futile. Attempts on my part have been made to open the minds of those around me but they fall on deaf ears. For victimization is rank in these parts and to look within would require having to have accountability for where one is at. I must admit it is a rather difficult thing to accomplish and I fight hard to remember that I do hold myself responsible for where I am at, where I am going to and where I am in between there.

Morning awakens to a new day, hoping that I will be able to listen in serenity to my CD player and find a corner to meditate in, away from the daily meanderings of this place to which I on some level chose to be. Grasping at the chance to shift it to sun in my heart and peace in chaos, only now do I have this chance to be at one even if surrounded by many.

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