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A Personal Monologue

This entry will be used as traditional journal entries were meant to be used, to express one’s emotions. Albeit, many specifics are not mentioned out of the respect of others and acknowledgement that this is public. But also because it’s more of a poetic expression rather than a vendetta

Dear Diary

I was somewhatly spoiled the other day. And though it was for such a short time, I felt I was commiting the harshest of sins.

Between seeing so many of my fellow companions whom I’ve spent years of homelessness with, that recieve such a constant agony from financial poverty and communal poverty – that is to not have a strong social support system, reminding them that just by being human, we trully do deserserve to love and be loved, fed and not destitute. Between this and knowing so many others – atleast by name or face – who are so far removed from their own bodies capacity to tell them that they are dying, while their brain tells them there’s nothing they can do to stop it or even slow it down. Or: living in a survivalist state.

I saw a homeless old man in a wheelchair yesterday afternoon hiding from the hot sun and resting under a smalll part of shade, indeed invisible to much of the world. But not invisible to others’ eyes, but invisible in others’ hearts and therefore minds.

It seems only natural that other survivalist would have less empathy for the starved – because of their imminent need to survive, but alas time and time again it holds true that it is too often those who are the furthest from a survivalist state that seem most unable to open their eyes, nor tear ducts for those in survivalist states of suffering. Indeed in our country, no matter how rich or wealthy you are, its social correct, even hip to a degree, to say: “Hey, I’m struggling too!” “I’m close to starving too!”

Really? And which piece of reality tells you that you are??

So even the most brief moments of pleasure, or being complimented, or recieving paychecks from a part time job, even this makes me feel spoiled. Sometimes even a full conversation with a classmate before class begins or engaging with a stranger on the bus feels like I’m recieving too much.

The stomache shrinks from lack of nourishment, the brain and the muscles become unusable after being under-utilized for too long. I just, naively, hope the same doesn’t hold true for the heart.

I pray that, one day I will be in a place where when I feel love and social embracement it won’t feel like a delicacy. That I will one day feel entitled to it, and not like a dog having leftovers thrown into my bowl. And it will be reoccurring.

But almost just as important, I pray that if and when I ever do reach that state before my time’s up; that I can be like the few that I’ve seen through being more full or well “fed” truly realize that this therefore means they have a proper amount to share. The earliest and innate form of universal Welfare, if nothing else, a social contract that says by being a fellow human in a common environment, that I will give to you much, or at least as much as I myself would like to receive if and when I am in such a similar state. I do believe that to some degree governmental programs are our society’s collective conscious that we often don’t even praise in itself, that says: “Fuck you. I don’t care if you die. Work all your life and starve to death when your hardships ketch up to you.” But in the back of a building there is food in a dumpster to eat from, prostitutes to buy love from, men who will show you intamacy in private only by sexual means, illegal drugs for pain relief and escapism as needed, and cardboard boxes to sleep in.

Of course, utilize any of these means (of survival) and you are the scum of the earth. A person on life-support whom we are waiting to die. A child with no future. A human with no name…

On one side I see a field of dreams, the other ‪#‎agraveyardoffireflies‬


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