The Short Walk Home

Walking the short journey from the bus stop to my house for the millionth time, I become suddenly drawn into the characters that I encounter on this short trip, little more than a minute from stepping off and escaping from the UTTER CHAOS that the 18 bus consists of most evenings, to my front door. It is usually this moment in my day when I can reflect on the latest of unreal occurrences that I, and the rest of the minority of normal people, have had to bear witness to on this vessel of unpredictable horrors. But not on this night. No.

Today, I acknowledge and become engrossed in the events at play on the corner at the top of my road. People are smiling, laughing, seemingly having an absolutely amazing time with dear friends. To me, this was a pleasant and uplifting sight, uplifting more so today given my own personal struggles lately. Envy washes over me as I slowly approach the crowd, a desperate need to feel the ecstasy they feel in this moment but on a daily basis, to swiftly emotionally overcome the everyday issues we all face and thrive, positively and optimistically upward on our individual journeys. This surprisingly rare philosophical stream of consciousness is abruptly interrupted, however, when I glance into the crowd and recognise some of the faces. One in particular sticks out, a lean gentleman dancing rather erraticallyagainst a wall, bouncing off of it in a miserable attempt to match the tempo of the music blaring from a speaker concealed somewhere.

I have met this man on a handful of occasions on my doorstep, often in the early morning or late evening as he is taking another hit from his crack pipe. I would merely usher him on elsewhere as I have been too busy or too tired to cause a fuss and he has always reciprocated and moved on quickly. The group was in fact a miniature rave of sorts, consisting of this man and other recognisable drug addicts who can be seen regularly in my area whether it is begging for spare change or fighting amongst each other in their drugged stupor. They were having a great time but this was probably chemically induced happiness as the "dancing" was wild, with flailing limbs and a severe lack of clothing in some cases.

Quickly resuming my deep inner thoughts, I pondered whether the man and his "dear friends" were happy at all and if they were simply prisoners to an addiction and had to embrace the highs of their dependency for it was the only time in which they could forget their set of circumstances. Their everyday issues which could vary from homelessness to ways of funding their next drug binge disappear ironically when they are under the influence, something that I still had a morsel of envy for amongst the overwhelming level of sympathy for their struggles and experiences that led them to this predicament. This centres around the simplistic daily routine of a drug addict. In contrast to the plethora of steps we all deem a necessity in our day, a drug addict's routine is much more straightforward. With their addiction at the epicentre, their aim is to fuel their habit. To acquire the drugs they want through any means necessary, use them, and then the cycle resets itself.

For a split second, I had envied this cycle as it reduced the feeling of disappointment in our lives, something we increase the likelihood of by having multiple ambitions. Of course, this was quickly shaken out of my head as I stepped into my house, thinking myself foolish for having thought so pessimistically. However I don't believe this very temporary loss of hope is uncommon in today's society and occurs in ways different to my own. I guess we've all just got to keep fighting and ironically "hope" that these moments are rare but also immediately dismissed as they were in my case.