i have no great words to offer. no grandoise parable of middle america and my simple place in it, no telling story with strands to a more naive and glorious past, no declaration of great dreams of a future to be. no, not here.

im losing my words, my attempts at something meaningful. and this is the assumed price i pay for my change for the better. everything has its catch and the decaying of depression apparently is no exception. know, its a price i gladly pay, a deal that is a bargain. happiness and academic success are too great of benefits to think otherwise. and yes, i know the muse is a fickle one and provides as she sees fit, but her visits are so few and far between.

im losing my words. i tried to write something great, something better. but the muse, she wouldn't visit, so ill leave you with this.

what is it to be 'homeless?'

easing my body onto these white concrete chairs, i fall into a sleep (an uneasy sort). with lids fluttering, as consciousness knocks unsteadily at my fragile front door, i drift. for twenty minutes, i slide backwards into a land of giants; where things always seem to make so much more sense. waking, i rise my creaking (or was that the chair) body to meet reality. turning, i check the clock, updating the running tally, this countdown in my own head. “are you waiting on a ride, or a bus?” this, i know, is a loaded question. i’ve been sitting, laying on these ceramic pews of desolation for about an hour, and i know what this man is actually asking. what he means to ask is this, “are you paying us money, or are you just using our shelter as a refuge from the cold?”
after considering my ticket and validating its authenticity, he gives me baggage tags to attach to the two pieces of luggage i plan on putting in the storage region under the bus. as i head back to my bunker of crème colored concrete seats, i hear the man behind the counter say, “we appreciate it if people don’t lie down on the chairs.” a feeble “sure” is my only response. as it seems, my twenty minute nap is officially over. somewhere i hear a sorrowful sonata, with accompanying bagpipes blaring, mourning the end of my siesta. the ending of something so blissful and pure should be commemorated in song.
but this is not important. as i peer at my reflection in the grossly overpriced (dollar a snickers bar) vending machine, im left to wonder. is this institution, with its reputation as is (greyhound is know to carry the less fortunate of America to their destinations), so scared of its public image to deny me my nap? the problem, of course, has nothing to do with my nap (i could care less if im able to sleep or not), but rather with the public image of the less fortunate (or as known in the slang, hobos). perhaps i match the preconceived notion of what a homeless person should look like (what with my scraggily built beard and long curls of hair poking from underneath my stocking cap).
but neither is this the problem, for the man who kept me from my slouching has his long hair in a pony tail and a more unkempt beard than my own. so what, exactly, is the problem?
how many of you, upon seeing a homeless man holding a sign, standing at a street corner, feel fear? how many of you, after seeing someone so unfortunate, reply secretly (or not) how scared you felt?
this is the problem.

a problem, but where is the solution?
is it in our thinking, in our feelings of fear, or is it in our inactions? what can we do, that we dont? what can i do, that i dont?
a lot.


and this.

we are the privileged youth of America.
we are the future of the world. and sometime, maybe even sometime soon, we’re going to start acting like it. hopefully, it won’t be too late.


and this.

frailties
faint-hearted
i stand
from your smile
the grace
of being in this place
with you
and
as you turn away
youll say
with a small smile on your face
this is who youll be
“and by the way”
it was all fake
faint-hearted
i stand
from the way
you walk away


and this.

ragged and worn
a face contorted
by pain, i see
you clouded
in the rain
dripping down
my face
cleaving
clinging to the
edges of this
façade of mine
this vacant
complacent
face of mine
(its unfinished)






as allways, i apologize. for the lack of beauty, the lack of 'words'. so this is all i have to give you, pieces of the puzzle. pieces of me. just a collections of sounds, of letters. of me.

boredom
tracing what was lost
across the crinkles
in your face
your misplays on
a faulty confidence
this repetition of
letters and phrases


for one of my classes i was supposed to visualize "the exact moment in the future when i am experiencing the accomplishment of my biggest dream in my role as a student" and then describe it in words.
so this is my dream, this is a little piece of me. 

        The warm sunshine is falling over me, and it seems to warm every bone in my body. Its spring time here in Minnesota and this spring has seemed unusually warm and pleasant. I watch as the individual rays of light cascade on the sidewalk, spreading themselves into distorted shadows of something greater. They seem to dance on the concrete, reminiscent of rain dances around campfires hidden in the sacredness of the past. The sounds of children playing break me out of this sun drenched trance. It’s three-forty, which means I don’t have class for another forty minutes so I take a detour to watch the little guys play in their little penned in land of sidewalks, imaginations, and jungle gyms. Several of the kids yell out my name and I give a smile and wave. I’ve worked here at the daycare for the last three years, and all the kids know me pretty well by now. As I lean my body on to the fence, I catch a glimpse of a couple of squirrels chasing each others tails. And I wonder, softly chuckling to myself, if that’s where the infamous saying came from; if it all started with squirrels. I turn my attention back to the squabble in the middle of this college campus and find Taylor, its self proclaimed town crier. It’s amazing how much she’s grown, but I’m glad to find she hasn’t quite outgrown giving me hugs. I pat her on the head and smile as she, in mockery, pretends to be offended. 
         As I wave and turn to head to class, I see Aaron walking back to the dorms. We’re rooming together again this semester and I’m so thankful to have such a great friend. He’s coming back from a Greek study session, or at least that’s what he says. By the grin on his face though, I’m guessing he was visiting his girlfriend… Amanda1... or something like that. Remembering names just isn’t one of my fortes and sadly enough her name is no exception. We jokingly jab each other and interspersingly trade comments about each others mothers, and I realize how enjoyable this ‘immature’ style of conversing really is. I know that some people find this ‘immaturity’ to be somewhat belittling, but I wonder, who exactly does it belittle? 
         “Childhood is short, maturity is forever,” I mutter, as I remember a little piece of Calvin’s2 wisdom. As we pass the now almost jade green statue of Martin Luther, it slowly dawns me that I forgot about my class again and that we’re actually walking away from my classroom. Some parts of us never seem to change, and I realize that I’m still quite scatterbrained. Watching Aaron retreat back to the humble abode we call home, our room in Hyatt, I realize just how proud of him I have become. This feeling I’ve come to recognize as the protective pride of big brotherhood slowly envelops me and once again I become aware of the sun and its warmth.
        Walking past the brass bell that serves as a memorial to something I no longer remember, snapshots revolve in my mind; click, click, click. Memories of adventures and mischief, of late nights and great, enveloping hugs swirl around in my gray matter. In passing I realize the tunnel hasn’t changed much in the four, five, six years its been since I nervously perused them as a freshman. The inevitable turns, the ascending stairs, the overwhelming heater on the third floor haven’t changed a bit. As I enter my classroom, now a couple of minutes late, I notice the suns rays filtering trough the open windows and I take a moment to bask in its warmth. “Glad to see you could make it, Josh.”

1-name changed
2-from calvin and hobbes

ive been having a lack of words as of late. like they vanished. as if my muse as gone to go visit some more (un)fortunate soul. which maybe it has. so i dont know what to write, what to say. how can you express a feeling when you dont know what words to use?



though i do know this. its good to be.
in warmth, in love, in fear, in anger, in life. its good to be.
so come in closer, ill whisper these things into your ear. stories ill tell, exagerations of truth, these words ill give you. for these words are all i have to give.

stand and fall away
from this place
subtract your smile
and all trace
of _____ is lost



its good, this whole being back to college thing. its so enjoyable. i went sledding for the first time in a long time, and it amazed me. battle creek was such a contradiction, such a peaceful and serene place. after sledding, we came back and drank hot cocoa and played monopoly. it was great to see how comfortable people can be. it was almost as if thier personality could rub off onto me. i enjoyed my time with these strangers who became like friends.

its good, this whole return of people back to college thing. to see these familiar faces, these friends of old. im blessed by the old and the new alike. the j brethern reunited, conversations through window panes, the reflections of smiles long missed. its good to return to this place, to walk in a crowd of people who will never know me yet somehow share my pain.

its good, this whole being changed thing. im different now. i think some people can see it, i know others have. this place (rm 200) is a sanctuary to me now, a place of serene calm i share with a brother. i am here now, to stay. i will see to it, my brothers will see to it. sometimes, when im in the quiet of this place, i feel almost like a child. i feel almost like a me. its good, this whole being changed thing.

i miss home, and i miss life as i came to know it. time allways comes to change what we know, what we think wont (change). and three months is a lot of time. i miss one o' clock and the feeling that accompanied it. i miss the smiles, the constant inquiries about my age, the never ending piggy back rides that would leave me weary. i miss them. logan and how we would walk, hand in hand, throughout the entire school. danni and the neck cramps i got from her hanging from my head. time allways comes to change what we know. its good, this whole learning thing.

theres so much beauty in this place. so much.

this world, it just exists. the values you follow. the memories you cling to. the life’s we live through distance. the left over placements of blind faith. in people, in love, in God.

can you see it in their faces? the sense of failure. the need for a life that means something. they sought greatness, they fought for possibility not so long ago. does it seem like ages? can they remember what it was to live?

look at their eyes. their weathered faces, worn by time. the subtle changes in thier movements. the frustrations hidden deep. the suspicion of others that comes from years of apathy.

look at the way they move. the strain of their every step. the fatigue that comes from years of a frantic pace to fast to withstand. limbs worn by a society that’s forgotten what slow and steady means. the results of life lived in one frenzied rush.

do you notice the creases, the ways their lips slowly curl at the edges? this malady is permanent. this is the result of a thousand fake smiles. the cost of a life lived without validity.

this world, it just exists. they sought greatness, they fought for possibility once not so long ago. does it seem like ages? can you remember what it was to live?


p.s. please dont become one of them
p.p.s. im done running away