Im sitting in the department of transitional assistance office right now.
Chicks in their slippers and kids in their pjs. Its four in the afternoon and 30 something degrees out.
I look around and it makes me feel like trash. A wastecase.
I know im not, im working hard.
I hate that im here,
That i have to be here in order to survive.
I saw a man with a sign on my way to the child care office.
“Jobless need money or work.”
My music blasting dubstep techno,
I barely heard his thank you after i handed him a 5.
He had orange eyes, almost the same color of his beat tims.
I almost felt like his friend.
Like we, in different circumstances could be friends.
Relate to eachother on a soulful level.
Maybe we did.
I wished i had turned down the music, i wouldve liked to really hear his voice after seeing those eyes.
Ive got a thing for voices,
I dont like my own.
A good friend of mine has said that those “homeless/jobless” people arent really what they say they are.
That thats what their job is, to stand there and take peoples money and they get paid for it.
I cant remember what exactly he said but it was something along those lines.
I cant help but get lost in my friends voice and energy sometimes.
I think its that love thing, two connected souls.
I try to listen but he numbs me it feels good. And i also dont wanna hear his somewhat pessimistic ways of thinking. I get too tired to share my optimism. Not in the mood to make a point.
Tho i should be more, with him.
Hes one of my only friends that appreciates what i think.
I saw 3 cruisers on my way here. Three cops standing around this man, one waving his baton. Twisting it around like an umbrella and he was a little girl.
The man with his hands behind his head looked like a character from a movie. A dirty old puffy patriots jacket, beanie on his head and puffy eyes.. pale face and no resistance, just there. Very city slum, living inside his own head, not a care in the world but where he could get his next buck and fix.
There was another man standing off to the side. Older, matching attire to the man being questioned. I bet they were in it together but the elder are less suspicious. That white hair carries respect, something i appreciate about this world and how some things will always remain the same. The older you are, the wiser you must be.
Such an oddful world.
I like making up my own words.
My boss/friend calls them “britisms”.
Ill be old one day, though i pretend its very far away. Im only 22 so in some sense it is a long “time” from now. ((iquote because what is time? but moments strung together in a rhythm we try to follow, always wasting it, wanting it, needing it, wanting to steal it, sleeping it, believing in it or watching it move along ))
But when i wake up one day when im 80, this day will feel like a dream.
Ill remember moments of being here in this office, wishing i could do more for my son and myself but not having the full ability to just yet. I wont remember these peoples faces or that flat screen that ive never seen on. Or the way people look at me when they see i shaved my head, all the length is gone. Its purple today. Yea thats a ring in her nose. ((Little do you know what kind of obstacles im balancing and influence i could have on you, could help you.))
But i hope to remember the power of these moments, the way they make me feel. The helplessness emotion, thats pushing me to want more, to never return to here in need of assistance, and being thankful for what they do, appreciation. and wishing everyone in here the integrity that i can feel inside my bones.