And he walks by ...

I was walking down the street after yet another mediocre night at the bar. Now don't get me wrong, I love going and meeting new people and conversing with the regulars. But the routine of it all is becoming mundane. I don't get repetition, therefore I don't like repetition. And as I was walking down the city streets, I was beginning to think of change. I needed change. I needed something different to do with my time. I needed aother forms of excitement.

This thought began to linger and and I started to analyze it even more and more; trying to figure out why I was dwelling on it and why it was significant for me to think about it consistently at that moment. And it hit me ... it was becoming repetitious because I was never going with anyone, nor leaving with anyone. I can have good coversations and such ... but never was I there to meet up with anyone, I was just kind of there. I was a fly on the wall so to speak.

And depression lingered.

I continued walking along the lonely street that would eventually lead to my apartment. Not one vehicle in sight nor can one be heard. It was just me and the city. And so I continued on ... not really wanting to go home but knowing I'll end up there anyways. I sucked it in, and ventured home.

Dwelling on my current state, I was disturbed by an odd sound; a squeaky sound. It caught my attention because it too was repetitious for it followed my every footstep. Step, squeak. Step, squeak. Stop, nothing. Step, squeak. And it had occured to me that I was hearing this squeaky sound the moment I hit the street, the moment I was walking in silence. I looked down at my runners, the source of the squeak. I peered for a moment at the faded black velvet with is reflective decor that no longer shown. As worn as they were, I continued to wear them. And I continued walking. Step, squeak, thought. Step, squeak, thought. Step, squeak.

And a familiar but more distant sound was faintly heard. Another squeak from another shoe. I lifted my heard in search of its source; and in the distance, a homeless man staggered. His squeak was getting louder and louder as he staggered closer and closer. I can hear clearly my shoes squeak rythmically with his. Closer and closer, louder and louder ... then fainter and fainter. He had passed.

And as I had watched him pass me, I thought where is a homeless man walking to with such determination at 2:45 in the morning? Where does he have to go? And it hit me, like a big yellow school bus ... he's homeless, and I'm not. I turned around to watch him leave, and I can clearly see under the dimly lit street lamps the dirt on his denim jacket. The holes in his jeans. His tattered and crooked hat. His scruffy unkempt grey hair. All his features, all of him, disappear and reappear with each street light he staggered under. Repetitiously he faded in and out of darkness.

I'm a fool.

That night, as I got home, I stood in contempt on the balconey of my top floor apartment and smoked a cigarette in thanks. Thanks for the repetition, thanks for the changes. Thanks for my life.