You. It is all about you. Your stuff, your life, your thoughts and feelings. The spotlight is on you. It is always on you. I stay on the sidelines. I just watch how other people look at you, respond to you.
No. I am sorry. I am so very sorry. I can’t. I can’t let you. The Thing is there. The horrible thing is in the room next door. It will see you and hear you. You make noise when you run around. It’s natural. You are a cat. You need freedom. There is none here. No freedom for you, no freedom for me.
I can see it. I can feel it. I can taste it. A home—it is a home; it should be my home. The home is a welcoming place. Nothing can ever hurt me inside my home. It wants me and my soul. That is the same soul that hungers for peace and quiet, for a way not to be rejected and unloved. I walk by a building. There is an apt. in the basement. The window is made of clear glass. I see a stove, a table with 4 chairs and a tea kettle. All those things should be mine.
He stood with his legs wide apart. His thick and fat arms had tattoos all over them. The look in his eyes and face resembled the look that a security guard has before he kicks/escorts an unwanted person out of a building. A cat had escaped from one of the boarder’s room. Je told the fat woman with the dyed hair that the cat was not welcome in his living room. Since when was it his living room? The boarder adjusted the belt around her thick robe. Something in the pit of her stomach told her to shut the door of her room. This one is a menace, she told her cat. We want nothing to do with him. How dare he threaten me?
There we were, you and I. My knees were trembling. I made an effort to look at you, at your beautiful brown eyes. I had to do it. The words I wanted to say had to come out of my mouth. We were scared—you didn’t want to hear them and I was not going to let that stop me. My body stood before you. It was stiff. The words, I will never forget the words. They came out slowly, as if I had practiced them for hours. You said nothing; listening was all you could handle. My face was red. I swallowed hard. My patience was done with you. My legs walked me towards the door.
It was hot, so hot that everything seemed to be burning. You were dying. I knew you were dying. You had moved from the living room to the kitchen to get water from your water bowl once; then you gave it up. You went back to sit on the mattress on the floor. Your legs had bedsores. You had been used to walking half an hour 3 times a day at least. Now you didn’t care. Going out and sniffing things meant nothing to you. You were like a king in exile, a king who was tired and spent, but still strong. You didn’t feel like bothering with the basic things of life anymore. It was all behind you.
You don’t know. You think that because I wear ill-fitting clothes and shoes that have seen better days, I a m not much–much of anything. You think that my life was always ragged and topsy turvy. No. You don’t know. You don’t know me and it’s no use my telling you that I was like you, or almost like you, once. I could do anything. I had resources. I could go anywhere and not have to ask strangers for help. I didn’t have to feel like Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire.
I am beyond myself; I am more than beyond myself. The fat man with the pony tail saw me go out the door and when I tried to get back in, the door was locked. The fat man had been drinking. His excuse the time was Christmas Eve. When I confronted him and said that it had been wrong of him to do what he did, he just looked at me with his beady eyes. He pretended to be innocent and mentioned something about my having respect for his home. I stared at him. His home? It isn’t his home anymore than it is mine. He’s just lucky to sleep with the landlady. At one point he snapped his fingers at me and in his broken English, told me to go. Fucking Bitch was what I heard when I closed the door of my room. The fat girlfriend, the one with the dyed red hair sat in her chair watching all this saying nothing. I had to tell her to please shut him up.
Hit the ground. Yes, just do it. Just hit the ground. Do it now. Have part of your face, the cheek area, touch the pavement. Fall asleep. Fall asleep while you are seated on the milk crate. Before you know it, you’ll be down. You’ll feel blood in your face. No one will be there to pick you up and send you somewhere warm.
My precious one: no shrine can do you justice. Nothing I can feel, no matter how deep, can describe all that you meant and mean to me. Those other ones, the ones I often see on the street, are like you, but they are not you. Your essence, your soul—both belong to you and you only. Seeing the others makes me feel less lonely for you. I will miss you always; petting them will not bring you back, but my heart is less sad when I do so.