Half past five in the morning.

Half past five in the morning. I am riding a random train. The city barely awakened. I have about four hours left on my unlimited travel card. So last night I chose the longest bus route, now I’m just going one way until I eventually decide to turn around and go to do my things. I am homeless. I have plans and hopes this will not be for too long. Still, there is some poetry about this. I am merely tasting this live, saw people up close, listened to a couple of them. I intimidate them with my perfect shirt, my shaped beard, the fact that I read a book in the middle of the night, wearing glasses, while they, at least a group of them, try to entertain each other. We all know we can’t sleep during the night. There is either noise, harsh light, police, or the crippling cold of the outside. I will not have this freedom again. Doesn’t matter if I become permanently homeless or come out of this. I will never have an unlimited travel opportunity combined with the freedom to just go somewhere, even if it is confined to the border of a metropolis. It is a particular freedom, a taste of it, the smell of it. It is at the same time real and tangible and an illusion, a facade. I still don’t know where to put this experience. Should I be thankful I only see how broken I had to become to be here? Who knows.