Sometimes I remember the uncomfortable times of my youth. Lately the memories have been welling up thanks to various apparently middle class folk who seem to think they are doing somebody some good.
The rather idiotic freegans who have turned a survival tactic for the poor into activity of the socialist leaning middle class. The strange food stamp diet in which the middle class will somehow learn what means to be poor. And finally, earnest work of my own friends. Obviously, they mean well, but they don't speak the language.
I've been remembering the poor time. The hungry time. The time when things got particularly bad for me. I'm also watching a friend of mine slide, fight club style. In some ways the only medicine is to learn from hunger. Hunger teaches, assuming you can survive it. So, I am remembering. I don't want to.
I sincerely hope I am taking the appropriate steps at this point in my life. There are many reasons to suspect this is the case. But at the same time, the old demons come to tell me I've come undone again.
So I wait, having done what I can. Having raised the staff, I look at the water, waiting for the parting.
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