Dark alleys and street corners lit by neon crosses; drunks and belligerents, high and illiterate—tossed out and aside like litter, broken and bitter, accepted only by detox or the coroner. Every other face a foreigner, speaking in slurred tongues, incomprehensible, ranting about all things nonsensical; I sit and listen. Their eyes glisten, encrusted with tears, all things but trusted; over the years they become worthless. Dark alleys and street corners lit by neon crosses; men and women lie motionless like boulders, embossed by the pain of loneliness, covering them like mosses; this world is a burden on their shoulders. Dark alleys and street corners lit by neon crosses; that flame for life damaged by losses, lingering lightly, smoldering, dying. The night is broken by crying, broken promises: “I swear to God I’m trying…I’m trying.” Grunts and blasphemes answer my prying, someone screams, someone runs; flashing blue lights, tires squealing—that cold tingly feeling happens to my neck and I can’t stop my hands from shaking. A nervous laugh, a smile faking I sit candidly; I try and talk about my family, avoiding those irritating issues like income, type of car, the list stretches on for far too far. Poverty is defined as being not invested; maybe these people just need someone to invest in them—they are the antonym of blessed, dressed in filthy rags that reek of urine; an odor so potent it makes my stomach churn—my eyes begin to burn... The decay of western society is sitting at our doorstep and we sweep them into the gutter; they loiter, litter, and mutter, remembering those better days; blind children amidst the fierce fray. Every Thursday brings me back to reality, the frontlines, the casualties, they lie there dying. I move on from drunk to drug dealer, being the light of Christ, my radiance sputtering, flickering, dismal in the overwhelming darkness. I end a conversation, start a new one, soaked with the saturation of sin and sorrow; I see a glimmer of hope in hearing, “will I see you tomorrow?” Lying I reply, “no, but I hope to see you again.” I walk and wish upon that feeling of seeing my slovenly sister in Christ kneeling and praying, praying I will not see her again. She’ll move on, clean up, straighten out, and a plethora of other disillusionments of grandeur if not just betterment. These people are not victims of our government; they are hurting, they are alone. These people may not have cars or money or an education, but still they learn. These people may not care about their current situation, how they sleep on cardboard, how tribulation leads to glory and the like, how there is literally nothing they can afford, yet still they yearn for something greater, something more. I get back to campus and either crawl into my warm bed or head to Denny’s where I stuff my gluttonous face, feeling the stabbing pain of self disgrace with a side of pancakes I never finish, drowning in butter; I put my fork down and remember my fallen brothers kicked carelessly into the gutter. I feel sick. Fucking sick...
