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"I don't think I'll come back from this.I'm not made for the world."
I want to tell him he's wrong. That to me, he's one of the strongest people in existence. Now more than ever. But I know he won't believe me and, even if he did, he wouldn't relate to the sentiment in any way that made things better for him. My desperation for him to stay in my life just triggers guilt and hints of buried resentment.
I want to tell him that we can still do this. We can get the resources to everything we hope for and more. We can change the world in small but tangible, systemic ways for ourselves and so many more people. I'm just not sure if I can believe it fully anymore.
I fall asleep refining our plan and calculating budgets, scheming out the steps toward passive income so we can start a community center. I fantasize about wrangling kids programs while he gives speeches that pull people together a few blocks at a time. I imagine having an office and more people invested in the mission. I think of the kids with nothing to go home to, the mothers who don't know how they'll get to work, the felons with no hope of house or job, and I see all of us building the means to make our own money. Build profit for our communities rather than bankers.
But then morning comes, the sounds of weedwhackers and passing cars already vibrating the air, the rising sun starting its gradual daily process of boiling my organs. My bladder aches on the quarter mile walk to the nearest public restroom, and the mirrors there that won't let me forget how quickly I'm aging now. I look more homeless each day and find it continually harder to care. I wash my hair in the sink there and hastily change clothes while trying not to let anything touch the dirty floor. And then I go to work doing customer service for a wage that would be livable in another place. Each moment just barely sustains itself. There's nothing to move forward with and no reason to believe that will be different soon. How can I ask him to hold on when the only thing he wants from the world is so far away? If we make a wrong move, we sink down another level of poverty. From there, there's no getting back up.
So we leave again. Instead of continuing this cycle until we spiral out, we leave in search of another chance. I just hope we can make it, and I hope that he's still able to care when we get there.
I used to think he needed this more than me, but now I'm not sure. I just know I can't do it alone.