for some time i dreamt of a life of poverty. a life pure and simple and defined by hard work and human kinship. i dreamt of sharing all i had with the poeple around me. i dreamt of a life romanticized by the american moderns. i imagined escaping to a distant place and teaching english, or practicing some sort of medicine. spiritual or otherwise.
now, i see wine is no longer cheap and the world no longer generous. my lack of funds inspires not the clarity of an ascetic, but rather a kind of desperate greed. suddenly i see all of the things i want and cannot have; small reminders that neccessities costs me much more than a monetary amount. i take care to save whatever i can. i eat cold cans of corn and wax beans and chili and cream of mushroom soup with 10-minute rice.
i now find myself in a life of poverty, albeit not so extreme as to warrant obvious notice, but enough to cause a constant and sharp pain in my stomach from the moment i wake each day. i see bank statements and cannot open them. i cut my own hair. i find myself working my hands to the red wrinkled and cracked claws with the likes of ex-cons and drunks (both which may loosely apply to me). i am sexually harrassed constantly, and know that regardless of company policy, i should just smile and laugh. i wonder if i am pretentious, to look with equal contempt and respect for the men i share my long nights with. i often burn myself. i cherish those scars.
i find pleasure not in helping my fellow man or a job well done, but when the smells of so many sacks of refuse mingle to remind me of something more sweet. barbecue sauce, or musk. i find pleasure in my drink. i find pleasure in my sleep. i cry more often than i orgasm, but am just as satisfied, if not more.
sometimes, i feel the vomit creep up my throat when i think of the rest of my life. i am terrified. but i am thankful every day.
i miss you katie. infinitely.
