Today is November 23, 2015 and I've found myself in a place I would have never seen my self being a couple years prior. I'm in a shelter in the bronx, sitting in the lobby, waiting for intake and a bed. A positive attitude is a must, because what am I going to do? Feel sorry for myself? I already mourned my situation in the psych ward.
Being sprung from the coop was liberating, even though I met such beautiful souls who were broken, just as I was. There were artists, business men, yoga instructors and aspiring actresses, daughters of narcesisists who colored their hair lavender and gravitated to the scent, daughters who grew up having everything and me, who grew up with nothing.
Interestingly enough, we were all there for the same reason, we were fuckd up. Interestingly, you can have everything, you can have nothing and still be fuckd up.
That's why, I sit in his waiting room with a smile on my face as I pen these words. I'm at the bottom here, but all I can see from here is up.
If at 24, I am homeless, that must mean I have a hell of a lot to offer this world, and my success will be unimaginable.
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