I would like to tell you about a short journey that took me a very long distance. A journey that showed me every nook and cranny of life. A journey of excitement and ecstasy, fear and fright, pride and prejudice, joy and sorrow. The kind of journey that many men experience through the passage of rough sleeping. But this is my own peculiar story.
Dispossessed, destitute and desperate, is how it all begins. I am heading towards an unknown physical and emotional struggle. It is my first day of homelessness. My mind is full of uncertainty, yet it also feels strangely empty. My soul carries the weight of failure and guilt. I have lost my identity and I have little dignity to spare.
It is March, yet the evening is beastly cold. I am wandering the streets of the city, attempting to face the dire reality of my new life. I have nothing in my pockets and nowhere to go. For a moment I am taken by surprise as Big Ben strikes five deafening gongs, announcing the end of a shift for many city workers and pen pushers. They will go on working what we describe as the nine-to-five, as I embark on a journey devoid of routine.
The commuters leap out of their offices, like a school of fish chasing their next meal in the ocean. Hypnotised by the rush, mesmerised by the melodies ringing in their ears, as they listen to the latest tunes on their mp3 players. Collecting their free evening newspapers, puffing on one last cigarette before they catch their bus or train. The city's sheep following a lost shepherd. I am a lonely soul standing on the Westminster bridge, watching them. The northern blistering wind is blowing hard, cutting through the skin of my face like the sharp edge of a razor blade. My eyes are bleeding with tears as I look through the cosmopolitan crowd. Not too far away, is the London Eye revolving and resolving in all its splendor, as the light begins to fade with the early dusk. But all I can see is Tower Bridge staring, scrutinising me like an emperor of ancient times, asking me what I am doing.
At this point I hear a voice in my mind calling me to move. My tired legs start shuffling small steps. My idle mind becomes broody. One thought follows another as I begin moving along the river path of the Thames. The water is hitting its highest point for the day and I watch it leave a pattern on the wall below me. I feel a wet breeze wash across my nose and listen to the crash of the waves. Splashing and drifting, the water is calling me. Let go, let go. Just fall in and die. So easy. It isn't the kindest voice in my mind, but it comes from somewhere deep. It is the same voice that has smothered my self esteem.
The cloudy night seems full of signs, as I try to work out if fate is warning me to go or daring me to stay. As I get closer to Tower Bridge, all the noises begin to fade away. I am getting nearer and nearer to the emperor who is still scrutinising my each and every move, reading my mind and reaching deep into my defeated soul. I can hear him whispering in my ears. “Here comes the tramp,” he says, “here comes the homeless.” I can see his large lantern eyes beaming. For him, I am just one of the street people. Those whose are stoned on weed, lost in heroin, high on cocaine. Absolute drug addicts. Eternal alcoholics. Those who have consumed half the river Thames in cider. Or those who are slaves to someone else's deception or failure; cheated, divorced, their children left clinging to the hands of social services, liabilities to the hard working tax payer. I am one of those people, judged without a trial, and yet to myself I have committed so many crimes. So much water has passed under my bridge.
By now I am feeling morose and uncomfortable, my body is shaking and the cold is already in my bones. My heart is beating fast and my steps are becoming slow, like a tortoise attempting the London Marathon. I can feel myself suffering and I am cross with myself, because for me, suffering is a matter of choice. We don't have to suffer anything in this life if we are strong enough to deny it. When we do suffer things like pain, it means that we have lost control and succumbed to human weakness. But sometimes hardship makes us stronger. We have to be weak to suffer and we have to suffer to get stronger. The burden of happiness can only be relieved by the balm of suffering. Right now I am suffering. Exhaustion finally claims me, submerging my deep thoughts and confusions. My mind closes before my eyes and I am plunged into a deep sleep.
