Not having a place to go in the city is much better than not having a place to go in the bush. The bush can be a painful place. I thought I had it hard as gutter trash, living the downtown Vancouver life. I was wrong.
I remember so many days sitting on a curb, watching people walk by. I wish I could see them again. And my friends. I had friends. There was Skuzzy. Skuzzy would always make me laugh. He would do really stupid things like grab an aristocrat's but as they walked by. Just for fun. Once he jumped onto a BMW as it drove by. Often, downtown cars would tend to drive slow, making it possible. I remember him flying off as the car quickly halted. He would even try washing car windows with his dirty shirt, while he was wearing it. It was mainly done for laughs though; he was too smart to think he would get much money; even though, oddly enough, he would sometimes. I miss Skuzzy.
In the city there is always someone to talk to. Everyday I would at least receive and share one story. Sometimes though, it wouldn't be worth talking. But what I would give to talk to someone now. I wish Frank were here. He would always listen. Its not that he was very interested, but that he was too dumb to respond and too apathetic to stop listening. Even if he did not stimulate intelligent conversation I would love to talk to him now.
There was some people though, who no matter what, would challenge my thinking. Like Sid. She was very philosophical. She would ask way too many questions to ever answer any of them. She was well learned. Even though she was raised on the street since she was eight by her older brother, she always ended up getting cool books to read. She would read political books like The Wealth of Nations by Smith, and [The Communist Manifesto by Marx. She would encourage people to read religious books like The Bible, The Koran, and The Granth.
And then she had her special book; her brothers sketch book, which actually consisted mostly of a diary log. She loved that book. She never let it out of her sight. Her brother, D (I thought it to be an odd name), died a couple years before I got on the seen. I herd many roomers as to how his death came about; but Sid was an eyewitness, so I think it is reliable to say she knew for sure. But she never talked about it. Not even to me. She used to tell me everything, but not that. She even told me her real name. I don't think anyone alive knew her name. She did stress intensively that I was to tell no one. I never have. I never will. I respect her too much.
Sid was kind of my mentor. She was also my lover. People used to ask me why I was so in love with her; but they never could understand. I think they asked because she really was not attractive. Hell, when I first met her I thought she was straight ugly. But once I got to know her I lost sight of that. Now I think she is the most beautiful person ever. Oh my, I'm crying.
Every time I think of Sid I weep. I spent most of today, and the last few months in tears. She is dead now. I can't bear to think of it. Why her? She wasn't very pretty. Usually the pretty ones don't last long on the street. It doesn't make sense. She was grabbed one day by a couple of guys. They forced themselves inside of her. I don't think they meant to kill her. Who would ever want that? But she just KEPT struggling. She wouldn't stop. She was the one who was always telling people that "its better to accept a little pain rather than force yourself into more."
I have heard the story too many times. But it's a lot harder to write it down.
These walls of forest pierce with bitterness. It seems better to just parish. If I cry any more I wont have enough energy to even drink my tears, let alone walk to the stream. Its only about a three hour walk as far as I can remember; its getting up that's the hard part. See, I haven't eaten in about three days; and now I'm using the last of my energy to write. I know I'm going to die soon. I guess that is why I came out here. I hitched from Van to as far as Nelson. Then I just started walking. No supplies. Nothing but my rags. I can't tell how long I have been out here. I imagine a few weeks. I know that I haven't moved from sitting here for about three days. I have not eaten anything, nor have I drunk since I have collapsed to this sitting position. At the beginning of my bush walk I ate berries; I have even been eating bugs. I assume that I am hungry, but I can't tell anymore; I think I have lost all feeling.
I have stopped weeping now. Probably because my body is too dehydrated to produce tears. Soon I wont be able to write. If I fell asleep, I don't think I would wake up. Soon I will fall asleep. Then I will die. My only hope is that there is an after-life. Then maybe I will be able to see Sid.
Death is truly at hand. My body will decay. My corpse will become one with the soil. I wonder what kind of bugs will eat at my rotting carcass?
Death, you will have the victory. I'm waiting.
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