Disconnected lifestlye

I miss having a home. I miss living in a place that has windows and central heating. I miss the feeling of breeze and birds chirping when I’m waking up. I miss having carpet in my bedroom. I miss having a clean shower. A clean bathroom. A bathroom with tiles. I miss having a kitchen. A stove. I miss the pasta we used to make at Char’s house. The kind when we’d make the sauce from scratch.

I empty a can of STAGG Chili in to a tupperware bowl and microwave it. This artificial meal is the closest thing to a meal I’ve made myself in months. I miss the ability to cook for myself. I feel disconnected from the lifestyles of every one else I know. No one lives the way I do…. Even other artist types, ones who work all day in “studios”. They all live in normal apartments dressed up to look like studios. They all have the conveniences that would never make them miss living in Yaletown, yet they have a “studio” so they can be called “artists”. My studio? My studio is a fucking gutted commercial space on hastings that barely has running hot water with my bed in the middle of it. It’s easy to feel like a junky without even shooting junk. yet, it’s easy to be grateful. Everyday I walk out on to a street of people who don’t even have the luxury of a door they can lock themselves in with. People who want more than anything what I so easily take for granted – the fact that I am free from the drugs which still run their lives. And that is all I really should give a fuck about. All I have to pray for and be thankful for.