Author's Note: those of you who read my other stories, PLEASE DON'T KILL ME! i really shouldn't have started ANOTHER story when i already have three others running, but this idea started bugging me, and i started writing...and this is what happened. kai bai.
I sit against the graffiti covered brick wall, my guitar in my lap. My six-string is silent tonight. My backpack leans against my leg; the duct tape is peeling, so I smooth it back down over the rough fabric.
I hold my face in my hands, peer out through my fingers. My fingers like bars over my heart. Don't let them in, they'll only hurt you. They will take your fragile stitched together heart and rip it apart, then stomp on the pieces.
You can't trust them.
You can barely trust yourself.
I stare up at the night sky, stars barely showing, the city lights blot them out. Maybe I can't even see the stars. Maybe I only see the far-off street lights. I'd rather see the stars than the street lights, so I'll let myself think that I do see stars.
Silence. That's all I ask for, just a moment of silence out of this frightening world. The city is always loud, always moving, no one ever sits still and takes a moment of silence. They are all content to run through life in the pursuit of riches that may never come to them.
Maybe I'll just sit on this sidewalk. Maybe I'd rather not be one of the people I see rushing by in their fancy clothes and fancy lives. I see them. They rarely see me. Sometimes one of them will look my way, for the briefest second. They always have this look in their eyes, one of pity, one of disdain, one of loathing and sympathy, one of 'how did he get where he is?' The disdain and loathing I can take, but not the pity. Those people are the worst.
I pity THEM. They do not pity ME. I am free. Free in the truest sense, free from the rat race, the run for gold, from fame. I am content with sitting here. I have my guitar. I have my life. I refuse to let that be taken from me.
Sometimes I don't get enough to eat, sometimes I sleep behind Dumpsters. Sometimes I envy the kids I see walking to school early in the morning, laden with books and designer clothes. Sometimes.
I refuse to be classified. I am a nomad, a gypsy, a long forgotten traveler. You would ignore me if you saw me. I am okay with that. I have my life, you have yours. I do not want your life. You do not want mine.
I sit still and watch the street light stars for a while longer, then stand up, sling my guitar across my back and take my backpack in hand. It's time to move.
I walk down the street, pausing for half a second in each blotch of warm yellow street light. The sidewalk contains an assortment of people. Many of them are the sparkling neon rave people, out going to clubs and getting high and dancing. I have never been to a club, nor been one to dance. It being close to eleven at night, many of the fancy suited people of the upper class are gone, leaving me and the others. The others are the night owls, the insomniac art students, the graffiti artists, the rave people, the nomads like me, the others.
The ones who fit nowhere but here. The ones who wouldn't be anywhere but here.
I live on the streets.
Some say I am homeless, I say I am houseless. I am quite at home here, on the street.