Well, I'm not surprised. I finally had to hit a homeless shelter. Despite my swagger and my time spent with people who mainline, I shook for two days. Luckily there's a library across the street. I don't like how hard and blase I'm getting. But I'll take it over death. Dishonor over death. I'm a coward. I like being awake. Even though reality comes down like a thousand pounds of voile every morning. I will not die before I'm 25. I will not die before I'm 30. I will have the life I want, and nothing's going to stop me.

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kudos for makin' it, purple-box (sounds like I'm congratulating Barney's vagina…)

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The smell of cold and rain depresses most, but it instills in me the memories I most greatly cherish… freedom deeply grounded in humility… it reminds me of my head being crushed by thoughts of death, my arm burning [oh the beautiful sensation!] … my eyes ambushed by blood… my heart being ripped from my chest and stabbed with an icicle broken off of the rearview mirror from my piece of shit car that was my only possession, my address of residence, wanderer, hunter, gatherer, loser… The beautiful scent of stale smoke from cheap cigarettes and sweet miss mary jane… my only sense of sanity… it’s beautiful how patchouli can cover the stench of homelessness and prideI wouldn’t trade those times to hold the whole fucking world in my hand

for me, there is something extremely comforting about the concept of a "home." wherever i choose to call home, i know i will be relatively safe and secure, and most likely surrounded by people that i love.

to be "homeless" is not to be without safety, security, or love, however.

enveloped in comfort, people tend to stagnate. therefore, any facsimile to homelessness that one experiences -- be it physical or psychological -- can serve to enrich one's life in many ways. one will learn not to strictly associate safety, security, and comfort with a few makeshift walls and a door with a lock. rather, one can learn to make peace with the world one stranger, one scavenged meal, one comfortable park bench, or one "fuck you" to the daily grind at a time.

when home ceases to become strictly physical, relationships may undergo an elaborate metamorphosis. the people who truly love you and those that you truly love will not be swallowed in a void of vacant , scoffing faces; they will be enlivened by your newfound ferocity towards living. you will become not the inhabitant of a place, but a person defined by the things that he or she does and says -- not simply defined by things. you become a lot less "convenient." you might even be a lot harder to find.

when one confines the definition of "home" to a particular country, region, city, or apartment building, limits are set on one's sphere of influence. one's "stomping ground" becomes the cul-de-sac in a whitewashed subdivision. one's bit of earth is reduced to the confines of a mailing address.

when the whole world is your home, "homeless" is a misnomer...many who are considered homeless have already found their home!

What is a home? I have 3 homes, at least. Yet I still feel homeless.


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