I walk the streets that have become my only home. All around me are people walking. People with jobs, families, and places they call home. These people do not acknowledge me. They walk past me as if I am a ghost they cannot see. Mothers look down at their phones, while their children point at me, and ask curious questions.
In a street filled with people, I am completely and utterly alone. They all deny my existence, and scoff at my presumed laziness, drug use, or mental illness. I hold a sign begging for money. Most will look down at their five hundred dollar phones, and scroll through their Facebooks, looking for anything to distract them from my poor humanity.
Some of these people may even speak out about people like me. They will post articles …show more content…
We all have a story. A war vet with PTSD. A mother forced onto the streets. A man with an addiction in charge of his life. The homeless are people with stories, just like the people with houses. While some of us may have made mistakes during our lives, we were all born through innocence. All born with an inkling of hope that we could be something more than the unfortunate people we see on the street. Despite this, our mistakes are now our life sentences, while others who are just as guilty continue to walk the street with freedom in their hands.
Suddenly there is a blonde baby. A soul of innocence untouched by the world that has brutally beaten me. The logo on his stroller speaks words that his family is well off. I never understood the idea of buying an expensive item, rather than the cheaper alternative. Perhaps that is a secret only the well-off know. This baby does not know this secret, but surely his mother must.
Just as my mother once protected me, this young soul is protected by his. His mother hands me a dollar, as if to swat me away, rather than to proclaim her sympathy for me. I have learned to accept this exchange. Some may feel sorry, but the majority does this in hopes they never become me. We live in a society of fear. We acknowledge each other's pain, but do nothing to understand it. I am looked at as a preventative measure. The lowest bar in limbo which they never hope to have to step
In a street filled with people, I am completely and utterly alone. They all deny my existence, and scoff at my presumed laziness, drug use, or mental illness. I hold a sign begging for money. Most will look down at their five hundred dollar phones, and scroll through their Facebooks, looking for anything to distract them from my poor humanity.
Some of these people may even speak out about people like me. They will post articles …show more content…
We all have a story. A war vet with PTSD. A mother forced onto the streets. A man with an addiction in charge of his life. The homeless are people with stories, just like the people with houses. While some of us may have made mistakes during our lives, we were all born through innocence. All born with an inkling of hope that we could be something more than the unfortunate people we see on the street. Despite this, our mistakes are now our life sentences, while others who are just as guilty continue to walk the street with freedom in their hands.
Suddenly there is a blonde baby. A soul of innocence untouched by the world that has brutally beaten me. The logo on his stroller speaks words that his family is well off. I never understood the idea of buying an expensive item, rather than the cheaper alternative. Perhaps that is a secret only the well-off know. This baby does not know this secret, but surely his mother must.
Just as my mother once protected me, this young soul is protected by his. His mother hands me a dollar, as if to swat me away, rather than to proclaim her sympathy for me. I have learned to accept this exchange. Some may feel sorry, but the majority does this in hopes they never become me. We live in a society of fear. We acknowledge each other's pain, but do nothing to understand it. I am looked at as a preventative measure. The lowest bar in limbo which they never hope to have to step