Last night I attended an evening class at the University of British Columbia. I thought I had ample time to return to the shelter but I ended up being fifteen minutes late (this being of course my fault and entirely avoidable). They gave my bed away and for the first time ever I truly found myself on the streets.
I walked around all night, at times sitting to meditate or otherwise retreating to fast food restaurants. I had ample opportunity to read and reflect. I had to think about the nature of the stories I want to tell. I have to be a writer because I have this deep, neurotic need for truth and honesty. I cannot write stories that are untrue to my experience. I believe in courage, in perseverance. I believe in following my dreams to the very corners of this world. I believe that when the darkness ends, and it does end, that there will be light.
I believe that I’ll look back on these days and laugh. That is my truth.