Fight Club

I work hard for everything I have. I sweat and grind for this. I show up to work red-eyed and over-caffeinated for this. I showed my sister my savings account balance a few weeks ago. She said she hated me, in the most sarcastic of ways. I told her not to be envious. I said I work seven days a week for this. I eat the same pasta for lunch every day, the same PB&J sandwich for breakfast every morning, and again for dinner. I don’t have any time for myself. All I do is work and work and work and think about how can I get more money. I don’t read, I barely write. I try and survive.

This is what the struggle does to you. When you find yourself facing homelessness as I did a few months back, it puts the fear of life into your belly. It teaches you not to grow complacent. It makes you learn that no one will save you, especially not an excuse. It teaches you the power of prayer, curled up on the rug, drifting off to sleep in hopeful anguish. It taught me to reserve my tears for that prayer rug and to keep the outside world from seeing them.

It still comes as a great shock to me that no man is allowed to cry in public. I don’t get that. As if men are inhuman beings with no emotional toolbox. Maybe they are. Or maybe society programmed them to be that way. All I know is that I don’t know anything. The cold is creeping in and the coffee keeps me warm. So do these words.

Fear not, dear reader. I still write. I just don’t share as much nowadays. It has been a time of great transitions. I know my purpose and I follow it with a singular mind. I fight for every penny that I’m worth. Every prayer that I deserve. Every friend that I cherish.

I fight, dear reader, because to give up is to die. And if you’re not living, then you’re dead. I plan to live. That’s all I have to share. Stay warm out there, kids.