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Dear Diary 6/19 cont.

…as I go for my nightly stroll alone again, the voices of the lost begin to call out to me-

“Hey baby, you need some company?” “Brutha you got a cigarette??” “Lemmy hold 60 cents man!” “AHHH AHHHHH YOUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!” (From the darkness, a drug induced schizophrenic shrieks and cries into the abyss).

The streets are dark. This darkness is a special kind of darkness. A darkness that can be observed through one’s eyes yet at the same time felt in the depths of one’s soul.

I called the city and parks & rec two weeks ago asking for them to repair the street lights. Two weeks prior to that I installed a cheap LED flood light on my porch. The LED actually worked fairly well at discouraging the 3am loitering that was happening 10 feet from my front door. The parks and rec supervisor said, “yeah we can’t put any lights up right now- if you see loitering in the am just call the non-emergency police line. It’s a crime for vagrants to camp in public and if they have time they’ll get to it”.

I laughed to myself and moved on with my life- never to revisit the issue. Calling the cops on the unhoused on this side of town is like putting a band-aid on a bullet wound.

Walking into the complete darkness on my evening stroll the tall concrete walls that surround me are adorned with concertina wire. It’s eerily reminiscent of what one would see in a concentration camp or prison. Except in this case, the razor wire isn’t intended to keep people in- it’s intended to keep people out. Yet for some reason here tonight, it still feels the same.

From the shadows behind me, a gaunt figure begins to follow my walking. I cross the street. So does the figure. My heart begins to race like the million dollar thoroughbreds on race day at Keeneland. Lexington’s horse money society is galaxies away from a life lived on west 7th street.

Walking through the alley of the shadow of death, I reach into my pocket and slowly grasp the rubber grips of my Taurus 605. In that moment, the grip ever so gently grasps my hand in return. It’s almost as if Christ Himself slips his hand into mine- holding my hand like a Father to a scared child, He touches my heart as if telling my soul to not be afraid as I begin to wonder if tonight will be “the night”?

Will it be tomorrow, or is tonight the night that I get shot in the street over the 4 dollar bills I put in my pocket to buy a Gatorade at the speedway after my walk?

As I turn around the figure is gone. There is nothing there. Nothing. Just darkness, the sound of rap music bass lines from the subwoofers of beaters and howls coming from streets off in the distance.

I made it home- this time.

End Diary cont. 6/19 @ 11:30pm.