I am in an apartment in New York City.
It is undeniably the best Air BnB I have ever had. I have the entire apartment to myself. It's the first time I have been alone in a month.
I am pretty sure that this last month has been the longest continual amount of time that I have spent with people in probably twenty years. I always find a way to get a whole day or two alone somehow, but today is the first for me since the end of August. It kind of feels weird. Still, it's lovely. I love being alone more than anything.
Of course, luxury has its price. Or something like that.
12 days ago, we stayed at a place in Roanoke, Va. Because I didn't read the small print, I did not know that a $200 security deposit came with that place. It was supposed to be released. It hasn't been. But because I needed a place to sleep last night (my travel mates have friends with couches, but no extra space for me) I rented this Air BnB with the amount of money that I should have in mind, and not the actual real life amount in my account.
And so for the fourth time this month, I am overdrawn and have no access to money.
My last meal was half a donut yesterday morning. I have no idea when I will be able to eat again.
I am still sick too. Feeling a lot better than the horrible flu I've had all week, but still feeling weak and shaky from it.
It's my first time in New York and I can't even buy a slice of pizza, let alone do anything other than walk around and burn calories I can't afford to lose.
And now looming more and more in the future is the fact that after we finish this tour, I will have no place to live and no transportation and no ideas.
In 16 days there is a blank slate for me. I will be in Minneapolis. I might be able to scrounge enough money to get back to Colorado, where I can stay on people's couches, but Denver isn't great with public transportation and it's about to be very cold.
So maybe I should go somewhere else. But where? What I really need is a solid shelter and access to food so that I can write this book. I know that won't help anything in the short term (shit, the book might never even sell), but at least I wouldn't feel like this was all for naught. But maybe such a place doesn't exist for me. I can go back to trying to write between having two or three shitty jobs, but that didn't work for me at all before. It left me in a place where all I could do was dream of the sweet release of death.
I want something better for me. I am doing everything I can to make that happen.At what point do I admit that I have failed?
I stepped out in faith on this grand adventure. And I have miraculously made it almost 8 months on the road. I believed it was going to create for me a better place to land, elevate me out of my depression fueled minimum wage existence. And it still might. I am not done yet, things can open up, opportunities can arise. I hope so.
But right now, things look a little bleak.
Traveling was my big gamble to keep myself from taking my own life. It worked. I want to live now, I want to live fully.
I just may not be able to. I can't live like this for long.
Whatever god is in charge of direction and good fortune, look down at this vexed mortal. I have no idea what to do.
8:50 a.m. - 2018-09-28
Recent entries:
An attempt to write. - 2018-11-14
Texas - 2018-11-08
A Car, Some Poverty, A Lady - 2018-10-24
Feeling good (in the hood) - 2018-10-11
The Weariness of the Road - 2018-10-09
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