Journal Of A Narcoleptic

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I had a home once

"Is this going to be another one of those stupid I-met-a-girl-had-a-one-night-stand-she-was-great stories like it always is?"  George spoke before as I took a deep breath. Rugs chuckled, "That’s pretty fucking ironic coming from you isn’t, George Paul, he who bullshits." George shot him a look. I had to laugh at that one.

"Not this time GP, we will save that for one of your stories. This one is new, well new as in I’ve never told anyone before today. It was a happier time, when things made sense. When the artist formally known as Prince was still making hits and wh-"

"Cut the shit, Holder. Rugs is sober and bored so this story better be great." He gave me a friendly crooked toothed smile.  

I can hear the people walking in and around the area, they simply ignored us, like we were invisible to them. It’s just one of those things you get use to over time. Being forgotten, and unwanted. Not only by society but by yourself. People always send you looks like you are worthless, your mind tells you are worthless, the bottle makes you forget. That’s just one of those things you have to get past while living on the street.

When I first met Rugs he told me that it didn’t matter how many times I clicked my heels and said I wanted to go home. Home is the streets. The streets are hell. Home is hell. Home wasn’t always hell. With the Holders, home was home. It was a safe haven where nothing was able to harm me. I had a place to hide from society, I had a shoulder of a loving mother, father, and sibling at my dispose, and I had people who loved me. People who had once meant the world to me. But people always leave.

I’m not going to tell them about the moment they left me, why they left me or any of those details, but I am going to tell them about the time I had a family, one I felt a part of, the only one that I called mine.