Home Too Soon

In my short adult life I've been known as many things. A mistake, a blessing, a compeer, corrival. The love of someone's life, nothing... a beggar, a thrull, half live or partially undead. living off the bits and pieces from the few civilized who chose to spare it. Hunger pangs rock me in an out of sleep, like an angler's line on an empty tarn. "These train carts sleep a lot better when ain't nobody on em". I heard in the distance Another exclaimed as he adjusted himself in recumbency. Homelessness mustn't suit me well I thought, 7 months in and My pride still thwarts my reality. Unfamiliar with the uncertainties each night brings, let alone the encroaching city air; a nightly reminder that i'm not at "home". Wherever home is. A veteran, not gone long enough to be a hero, home before it was okay to be forgotten. Here I sit. Existing In a non essential existence. "Existing"I glanced one eye to see 8bit sand draining from the digit hourglass on the platform display. "This is home for the night." I told myself as The hour neared 3am I found safety in that thought.

"Doors closing--thank you for riding City Transit" -"You're welcome " I replied aloud to the automated announcements. There's not enough appreciation for the little things. Common decency, basic social actions to prove humanity has a chance and and….Sleep finds me...I guess I cannot stand my own ramblings at times.

Some nights I catch myself in dreams that seem more like purgatory. Questioning, myself choices, Whys and hows. The regular interrogations of hindsight and regret playing good cop bad cop with my conscience. Other nights, I'm making love to my only true regret. Or at least her memory. Wild child… I wonder whose loving her now. It's embarrassing to wake up full staff in a train full of onlookers; for what it's worth, I've made a few lady friends in this time. Being handsome has it perks I guess. But tonight, good cop bad cop seems to be in the works. I spend an hour, what seems like an eternity, in there before I find myself being shaken awake. Except this isn't the typical rocking and reeling of my luxurious sleeping cart or the late night rider bumping into me. I am being robbed. I awake to a mixed crowd of drunken teens kicking and punching laughing and spitting all at my expense. At a different time I might have fought back. But I was only worried about one thing… inside of my literally war torn knapsack there is. A little black book. A moleskine, insignificant to my attackers undoubtedly, but it holds my thoughts, aspirations, regrets, my life between its 5x8 leather-bound cover. I need it as much as my only regret. I curl up as deep as I can to.protect "my precious " but a careless kick to the head left me unconscious.

I awake to the Paramedics dressing me in medical equipment. The ambulance rocking in an all to familiar rhythm. Tears begin to pour down my face as I realize I've been separated from my life. The pain in my chest made the beating I took nugatory

Giving up almost feels like the right thing to do at this point. "Sir can you heart me?!"They try their best to keep me awake but sleep finds me yet again. This time it wasn't good cop bad cop or hot and heavy sex with my regret. I saw my father. His rotund face came to me clear as day. He died shortly after my first tour 7 years ago, gifting me this little black book. as he smiled and wave me closer, it felt as though where I was lying rolled towards him.. he whispered in his raspy yet powerful voice, "stop right there, you're not coming home yet, but I got something for you" he placed his hand on my chest and It felt as though all my sorrow subsided. "Its not your time son but I have a gift for you". I ask" what is it?" And he only replied in a grin. The devious yet heartwarming smile piqued my curiosity. Anxiously I repeat "what is it? What is it old man?"" WHAT IS IT?"

I Woke up in full scream to a mature zaftig brunette sitting at the foot of my bed. Her face blushing to my glance or maybe my bewildered awakening, or the fact I was full staff. This woman was familiar to me but she wasn't the woman I dream of but one of my lady friends from the Train! "Landsby Holdings" she said in a sheepish voice. She always had a kind smile or a silent tip but we never spoke. She spoke in thick accent, a European accent, Norwegian I'm guessing, since Landsby means "Village" in Norwegian. As She stepped closer to my bedside, I saw that she had "my life" booked marked with a podgy finger. She saw the mixed emotions rush my bruised face as tears yet again flooded my canthus. She began to weep with me. She knows me better than anyone else without speaking to me. She knows my life, my love, the nights where I didn't think I'd make it through to see the light of another day. She even knows my "regret". She sat bedside and ran her fingers through my nappy coils giving me a sense of security I haven't felt in a while. "Home" almost. Her hand found itself resting on my thigh. I wondered if she felt the blood rush to my lower extremities or did she not care. It surely brushed her arm. Maybe its her accent or my lack of sex that made this intimate human moment one x short of me ravaging her, but what can I say a beautiful buxom woman is sitting bedside. " I want to apologize. I've read your dagbok… uhh diary but you have beautiful story. beautiful life. I would like to offer you 20,000$ to turn your writings into a streaming series ". her words were accepted before I had time to think. "yes" I replied as she placed the book on my chest. She removed a familiar Moleskine and jotted down her information. Usually i don't rip pages but you i like. call me when you are out " Her english broken but beautiful music to my ears as she placed the piece of paper atop my little black book. my sorrows subsided