Monday, March 16, 2009

Vagrant.

You can flee from Hell but you can't escape your demons. The best you can hope for is a haven, somewhere safe where you can lay low and gather the strength to turn and fight them. I consider myself lucky like that. Hidden in an anonymous town, with a guitar and a computer and a packet of smokes and a couple of folk who have no room at all and no time to spare, but even that's mine if I want it. Shit, this kid must've done something right in all these previous lives to warrant a love like that. And when Lady Luck returns as she always does, there's two names on top of the list of Who To Thank. And that's the True Love, kids, that they don't even want the thanks. 

So let's get real, I was homeless, broken and suicidal. That's the nuts of it. Sleeping in a park because I couldn't bring myself to ask anymore of anyone, because I'd been told I was a nobody, a drain, I was ruining a life, I was killing a dream. And Hell, you hear that over and Doubt starts to kill what little fire you had left, after years of hating yourself anyway for reasons too countless to mention. So what was I going to do? Ask the same faces for the same help? Nobody had answers, everybody's in a battle, we give what we can give and shrug in the face of helplessness. And that's the shit, when you've got no one to turn to but yourself, yet all that's left of yourself is a crying little boy under a tree begging the dead for some sort of respite, and all the dead can give you is another melody to another sad song. So I sat under that tree and I cried and I sang and for a moment there I was somebody - and the crowd went wild, as a stray dog licked my hand and begged for the half a bread roll I was eating. You see in Hell, every time you think there's a bottom, the bottom gives way and you're in free fall again. 

But who knows? 
Maybe this time I'm falling on my feet.





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