This Morning's Air

This Morning's Air

 

I awake to the soft thrum of my phone alarm on the ground near my head.  The morning air brings a familiar judgment that a few hours of rough sleep cannot erase.  I am homeless, and I am surrounded by trees and brush that hide me from the outside world but cannot hide me from myself. The damp, dewy earth has become a familiar friend. We have spent a lot of time together. It sees who I am and who I could become.  It knows me better than most, and listens to weakened pleas of mercy with casual ire like a priest in a cold gloomy confessional. 

 

The trees and brush and shadows are my shelter from the cruelty of the normal.  The new air of a chilly morning mocks my first breath.

 

I confess my sins but do not ask forgiveness because there is no forgiveness for the damned. I am alone by choice. I seek no friendships, but remain friendly. I ask for no hand-outs, but will not refuse a helping hand. I survive alone, but I am not lonely. I trust no one, yet I remain trustworthy. 

 

This morning's air slaps my world into focus and greets me with unfamiliar sights and sounds that are harsh and rude. The spot upon which I lay is covered with fresh dew and new leaves that fell during the night like a child's crayon outline on paper canvas.

 

This morning' air – this new air – brings new sorrow, and new hope and bids me decide which mask I will wear on my face today.  I open the book of my day with a groan and with slow, measured movements I begin the script of this new chapter.  It has been 1,735 days since I had a place to call home. As the cool morning air hits my face I shiver and silently curse my bland existence.

 

The warm morning breeze carries the sounds of fast moving commuters like caged beasts released into the wild to find their prey. The walkers will stare at me, but won't see me. They see an image – an intrusion.  To them, I am dead.

 

I am not dead.  I am not alive. I only exist – the mere outline of a man with no center or mass.

 

I sit up, brush a creeping crawler off my leg and check my watch as if I have somewhere important to go and casually realize I don't.  I am all alone and my soul cowers in shrouded shame, too weak to cast its own shadow…like a ghost afraid of its own presence.

 

This mornings' air reminds me that I must create something, do something, say something that will shake to life another stillborn morning that pulls me one step closer to becoming one of the downtown walking dead. 

 

Yet I am amazed every morning- by the beautiful and infinite hope of what could be. And I am amazed by the tragedy of my life in the distant wake of such infinite hope.  Hope that is alive, yet opaque as it dances just beyond my grasp even if I had the strength to reach out for it. 

 

This mornings' air, this new air. This new day belongs to me and gives me life, new life… I am touched by the Divine even as I am living in Hell. My life is an empty canvas brushed by the harsh and beautiful colors of life and death.

 

I tie my shoes, put on my mask, and walk back into my life.