Be Forever Homeless

Posted: March 28, 2010 in Random Ramblings

This one is a Part B essay in paper 1 of my english pre, titled “Be forever homeless”. I wrote this in the form of another diary by “Bob”, a homeless man living on the streets of Cork City.

My one true friend,
today was a day like every other day since the start of these bad times, my dark days. I woke up following what felt like the best day of my life. I was at home again, my real home, my parents were there. I had spent the day with Dave, my best friend in the whole world. But of course, I had woken up, to find that taht reality was dead and gone, before I could truly enjoy the happy moment. It was nothing but a dream, it’s ironic now that I think about it. Before I used to dream about the future, I was going to be a writer, I had the story plotted out in my head, I was going to be rich and famous. Now I can only dream about the past, what I’ve lost, what I will never have again. Dreams now serve to torment me only.
The gut wrenching spasms in my back broke the illusions of the dream. That’s what I get for sleeping on cold, hard, unforgiving concrete again. Specs makes a grunting noise beside me, I had almost forgotten about her. She opens her eyes, reaches into the pocket of her trenchcoat, puts on the thick glasses. “Morning Bob” she groans as usual. “Specs” obviously isn’t her real name, but Bob isn’t mine either, there’s no point in using the names we once had as “normal people”. In the eyes of the rest of the world we are no longer human, so why should we have regular human names? Specs adopted her name for the obvious reason that she wore the thickest glasses I had ever seen. She had started calling me Bob after Bob Marley, even though I’m white and blonde, because of my dreads. It was time for breakfast.
I had started growing the dreadlocks after I left home, my parents would have never approved. They now drape over my back like snakes and collectively are so thick they make a kind of hairy cape. You learn little tricks like growing long hair for warmth when you’re living on the streets. It usually takes about till ten before I have enough money to give to Specs for breakfast. I earn her food first. After all I have my guitar, she has nothing. I play every morning for hours to make enoughmoney for food. It’s hard though, you constantly get moved around by the cops. People don’t care much about the crazy guy with the four foot dreads who plays guitar either. Only the odd person will spare some change. But why should some stranger in the street care about me? My parents, my best friend, sure didn’t.
We both work extra hard in the evenings, we have enough money for food usually but we always strive for the extra few coins, so we have enough to buy some “entertainment”.
At night when it’s getting dark, people are more vulnerable to the pleas of a beggar. Ya know that annoying homeless guy you always see waiting at the atm? You know, the one you always feel wary of? That’s Specs job. I don’t know what it is, maybe she just looks more pathetic than me, after all she’s only nineteen. But she always manages to get enough money for “entertainment”. I usually keep on playing that guitar, it’s always good to have a little extra. I feel so protective of that girl, I only have four years on her, but I’ve been on the streets for five. I know how the system works.
We usually buy the drugs around midnight down some back alley. This is our “entertainment”. For me, it’s also the bane of my life. My parents threw me out when I told them I was addicted to speed. But now the drugs, my guitar, Specs and you my diary, my dearest friend, are all I have. Now I plunge that syringe full of heroine, liquid dreams, into my vein once more. As I fall into those dreams once again, I hope I don’t overdose, like Dave,
Bob.

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