This is not a story of finding shelter. This is the truth of living under a sky of perpetual scorn, where the lack of a key to a door is the least of the torment. It is the raw, visceral account of how homelessness doesn't just strip you of property; it strips you of self.
The grime is not just on the surface. It is a feeling that permeates the soul—an invisible, indelible stain that institutionalizes the dirty looks. You walk through a world where your skin, your hair, your very presence is a transgression. The sensation is a constant, grinding friction, a psychological sandpapering that never stops.
You exist in a horrifying duality. In one world, you are literally treated as dirt and a burden, an eyesore to be scrubbed from the pristine landscape of "normal" life. In the other, a fierce, desperate self clings to the ragged edges of normalcy, fighting for every small, un-poisoned moment. But those moments are always punctured. They are always twisted by the glitch in the matrix of basic human fairness.
Remember that $3 soda? That cheap, cold moment of reprieve? It transforms, inexplicably, into a war over the fundamental right to exist. Every casual transaction, every glance across a public space, is not neutral. It is a trial by fire, where an authority figure, a passerby, or a minimum-wage worker assumes the role of judge and jury, ready to mete out the sentence of
You are a puzzle, yes, but not one that simply won't come together. You are a shattered mosaic—physically exhausted by hospital beds and IV drips, mentally frayed by the constant fight to be heard, to be seen, to be acknowledged as more than a category. You are lumped into a group you never auditioned for, a collective burden whose only identity is unwanted. This relentless classification, this group-think condemnation, forces the corrosive question into your mind: Do I even matter?
The world yells, "Get your shit together!"—a cruel, hollow command issued from the safety of four walls and a steady income. They demand structure while simultaneously dismantling every scaffold of stability around you. This disconnect is the core of the surreal, disorienting reverie.
The emotional turmoil is a chaotic symphony—anger for the injustice, despair at the sheer weight of it, and a mad, unreasonable flicker of hope that refuses to die. You oscillate, pinned between the desperate, animalistic urge to scream and fight against the injustice, and the paralyzing, seductive thought of giving up.
This is the eye of the storm: the place where loneliness weaves with the longing for fairness, where every flash of memory, every confrontation, confirms the narrative: You are less.
Yet, you show up. Day after day. You battle the dread and the internal monologue whispering of unworthiness. The struggle is not to find a house; the struggle is to keep showing up inside the body that the world insists on devaluing.
This is the truth of the broken mirror—a life lived as a defiant question mark against a world that has already written its final, damning answer.
What specific element of this perpetual fight—the constant scrutiny, the lack of cleanliness, or the mental fatigue—feels the most overwhelming to you right now?
Share Dialog
No comments yet