Living as a Homeless Writer
I have this tent in my closet. I bought it two years ago when I went to the beach and I haven’t used it since. Now that I look at it, I wonder about my future. Someone close to me once shouted, “chasing your dream will lead you to be poor, broke, and hungry”. Poor and broke have the same meaning, but repeating the two together was suppose to make me understand the depth of my oncoming struggles a being an artist.
Not all artist are starving so it’s about time we stop with the idea. Most of us writer, painters, and musicians have regular eight hour jobs. I have one myself becasue I have to eat, but I wonder what would happen if I didn’t have another form of income. Nothing but my talent: being a writer.
I imagine myself sleeping in the tent I bought for beach purposes. I’m not camping out on the beach however. I’m stationed deep in the forest of Florida. Instead of listening to the sounds of the ocean swoosh against the wet sand, I’m easily startled by snapping twigs caused by either wildlife or an intruder.
From the outside of my dome home, you will be able to see that I’m up due to the faint glow of my computer light. I would be up all night working on anything artistic to pay for my next meal while I eat expired donated food. When the morning comes, I would collapse my tent, pack it and everything I own into this three wheeled bicycle that has a cage attached to it and start my journey. Everyone is on to their corporate cages. I’m out on the streets passing out my stories for anyone looking to read them in exchange for a dollar. At the end of the day, I would make probably four dollars off a couple of handwritten poems and short stories. Enough to buy a coffee to fuel another long night of writing.
Strangely when I place myself into this scenario of being homeless, I smile. Everyone is terrified of the idea of being without a job or home with the luxuries of streaming television, dinner, and brand-name clothes. To me, those luxuries feel like chains I cant break. As I am typing now, I feel the bondage of upcoming bills. But…being homeless is another thing. I would live on the day, travel around Florida, and make a couple of friends who are probably living like me. Not thinking about what I owe next month. I feel I would make more of myself as a writer by openly sharing my struggles. Yes, I am walking the path of my dream, but isn’t it better than living a life where I cant express myself? Is having the small luxurious of life that nearly everyone owns worth feeling a bit silenced?
I think about those words, “poor, broke, and hungry” everyday. I’m not worried if the day ever comes. I have my knowledge of God and knows if he can feed his wildlife creations, he would definitely feed me too.
