This week, I've decided to share a fiction piece I wrote through the perspective of a homeless man. Homelessness is, unfortunately, an epidemic around the world, and therefore needs attention. Hopefully this will open the eyes of many.

I don’t cry. Okay, that’s a lie; obviously I’ve cried when I was a baby, but I didn’t cry when I fell off my bike in the sixth grade and I didn’t cry when my Grandmother died a few years back. The point is, I don’t cry easily--if at all--which is exactly why it’s so unusual for me to be sobbing at the age of thirty-three, especially in the middle of New York City.

People are staring. I would know considering I used to be one of those ‘people’. Just a month ago I was that middle-aged businessman, pacing through the Concrete Jungle, phone nestled comfortably between my ear and shoulder, donning an expensive black suit, silently judging the freaks that would walk through Times Square. I’d scoff at the men on street corners who begged for money as I clutched tightly onto my wallet, sure not to drop a single penny to condone their drug habits.

Tears may be clouding my vision but I can clearly see the young, eager salesman watching me in the corner of his eye. He’s standing at the crosswalk, opposite of me, coffee in one hand, smartphone in the other, head probably stuck far up his ass. The frown etched on his lips is most likely from the fact he strongly disapproves of my tattered clothing and tear stained cheeks; either that or he’s stressed from the ridiculous amount of hours he works with little pay. I want to tell him to stop, and that it’s all a facade, but I know he wouldn’t listen to me because I was him once. It’s like I’m staring at my past, a painful reminder of how my life used to be.

I had it all but sometimes having everything still isn’t enough.

Maybe I should start from the beginning.

I could go on about how I was raised in the Upper East Side of Manhattan by my British Nanny while my father worked as a CEO for his wealthy finance company, and how my mother barely acknowledged my existence because she was far too preoccupied by her reflection in the mirror. I could brag about how I graduated from Princeton University but that’d be of no use because I was only accepted on behalf of my father’s generous donations. Quite frankly, I was rich and spoiled, and never understood the concept or value of hard work. When I graduated, I went to work for my father, desperately hiding my misery.

I hated finance, but I loved money. Numbers were foreign to me and I’d foolishly spend my paychecks on materialistic items because that’s all that ever mattered to me--besides booze. Somewhere between the twelve-hour workdays and wild parties, I met the woman who is now my ex-wife. She was a wealthy socialite and the daughter of a prestigious client for my family's company. In other words, we were a match made in business heaven. Our wedding was elaborate and more of a business affair than a celebration of love, but at that time, I was blinded by the dollar signs.

My world was made of an infinite supply of money, yet I never truly earned a cent of it. When my Dad was diagnosed with stage three lung cancer, I was forced to take over the business. Less than four months as the unofficial CEO, the company turned to shit, and so I did what any irrational, scared, inexperienced thirty-two-year-old would do; I sold it. In my stubborn eyes, selling the company for a more than decent profit was a hell of a lot better than completely losing it. Unfortunately, my parents didn’t see it that way, and I was disowned. Several days later, I found my wife having an affair with one of my co-workers. Surprisingly, I didn’t even care.

Thankfully, I still had my trust fund, which would last me more than a lifetime, and I wouldn’t have to work another day in my life. I could easily buy myself a penthouse suite overlooking Central Park and live the luxurious life of a bachelor, but I stupidly decided not to.

My father’s last words still ring shrilly through my ears. Perhaps it was that defining moment I decided to give it all up; the moment my father’s icy gaze slit through my own eyes as his words cruelly tore from his throat, dripping from his bloody lips: “You’ll never survive without us.”

I became rabid with the thought of competition and I was determined to win. So I gave up everything. Not only did I walk out on my family, but I walked out of my life; the life I was trapped into thinking I wanted.

Honestly, I never truly knew myself. Money does that to people. A world-constructed concept is the ruination of society. I became so obsessed and infatuated with measuring my self worth with inconsequential items that I lost sight of reality. I hungered for a life that didn’t involve money, all the while proving to my parents that I can, in fact, survive without them and their engorged bank account.

Now that I left everything behind, I realized what I actually need to survive other than money … I need food.

But I must have forgotten that food doesn’t magically appear on silver platters and that I actually need to pay to fill my stomach.

I’ve been homeless for a month and a day, I believe. In a desperate search to find myself, I’ve really only been hunting for food and shelter. Who I am and what I have--or a lack of what I have--no longer consumes me. I’m merely driven by the primal urge to survive on the basics. Even water is hard to come by.

I’m still rooted onto the filthy sidewalk, crying salty tears, as tourists and natives pass by, either assuming I’m a deranged criminal, or simply ignoring me as if I were supposed to be standing here. It’s mostly the children who stare at me as if I’m an animal in the zoo, curiously wondering and watching to see what move I make next. This one little girl whose hand is tightly gripped into her mother’s, has not strayed to look away from me. Fear and apprehension mixed with a sense of inquisitiveness leaks through her slanted brown eyes. I’m ashamed to be crying, especially when I know I should be conserving my body’s water, but I have no control.

Looking down at my hands, I notice how filthy they are. Dirt is caked so far beneath my nail beds I wouldn’t be surprised if a tree started to sprout.

The little girl is still looking at me when her mother follows her gaze and notices my presence. Her choking grip on her daughter’s hand tightens as a measure of fierce protection. She clings tightly to her purse as well before challenging me with an accusing look. A harsh scowl clouds her soft features, warning me to stay back. I cowardly scamper towards the street, wanting to tell her that it was okay, and I’m not harmful. Hungry, yes, but not dangerous.

I wanted to tell her that I was just like her, but I never was and never will be. She was probably from the suburbs, a middle class mother enjoying a trip to the city with her young family. I never lived in a quiet neighborhood or even had a mother who cared enough to protect me from strange men.

I was at the top of the food chain and now I am a scavenger; there was literally no in between.

I had it all, and now I have nothing. I thought it would be liberating and I’d feel better about myself, or something. When I was younger and my British Nanny would prepare my tri-steak dinner, she’d have Oprah or Ellen playing on the 65-inch television. Most of the time, I’d be far too busy playing with whatever gadget my father bought me to shut-up, but the talk shows must’ve quietly seeped into my brain and I thought that was how the rest of the world lived. I remember on one episode of Oprah, she had a poor family come onto her show and she’d given them a car, as well as paid their bills. I didn’t know why she did that, but the family was crying happily and I simply assumed that poor people lived solely on the handouts of others.

Then, one time in middle school we read a book about some guy who gave up everything he owned to live in the wilderness in order to live a natural life. At the time, my feeble mind couldn’t possibly grasp the immense understanding of what it meant to “find yourself” or why anyone would ever want to give up their belongings. Perhaps somewhere in the back of my mind, wherever distant memories are stored, that idea nestled its way into my subconscious and urged me to make my impromptu decision.

Maybe this would be my way to find myself, to learn what purpose my life possesses.

My wife… well, ex-wife, thought I was insane when I told her what I was going to do. Then again, she probably doesn’t give a crap because I left her everything and she most likely spent half of it on a boob job or some other enhancement surgery. In fact, she’s probably sleeping with the doctor right now.

I couldn’t go back to that life, even if I wanted to. There is no longer a cent to my name. All I brought with me was a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I didn’t know what else I needed.

In the beginning, living homeless was almost an exhilarating adventure. For the first time, I actually got to observe how the rest of the world lives, and I enjoyed it as much as they enjoyed watching me.

I considered finding a notebook and journaling my observations and thoughts, assuming I’d land a book deal or some bigwig director would film a movie about my clichéd life. I would earn my own goddamn money without the help of my father and I couldn’t wait to rub it in his wrinkled face.

Unfortunately, that’s not how the real world works. Living homeless is not at all romantic or a dreamy fairytale. It’s a fucking nightmare and I’m not at all a better person because of it. My decision was stupid and careless and I was not made for this type of life. Just because I may see the world through a different perspective, I’m still a selfish bastard. I have to be greedy in order to survive and maybe that’s why the world is messed up; we’re born selfish because it’s part of our means of surviving.

Right now, my only concern is myself. When I find food, I eat every crumb, and when I found a half filled bottle of Pepsi on the sidewalk yesterday, I finished every last drop. I bathe in slimy sinks and sleep on the stairs of subway stations. I wander the streets for food and sometimes, very rarely, someone will buy me a cup of coffee or a sandwich. I hate accepting handouts, which is why I’d rather die than sit on a street corner and beg for money. Begging is admitting defeat and I will not lose, but I’m always grateful for the acts of kindness and I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve never done such a deed.

I wipe the tears from my eyes and begin to walk around aimlessly, blending in among the throngs of city dwellers. A pang of hunger punches my gut and I attempt to suppress the ache but it’s a difficult task to accomplish because of the delectable smell of roasted peanuts and greasy hot dogs swirling through the November air.

Everyone around me has a specific destination in mind and I follow closely behind, although I have nowhere to go. I have yet to find my true self, or even the meaning of life, just like I have yet to find a substantial meal. All I know is that the line between pride and survival is slowly beginning to diminish. I’m beginning to think my father was right; maybe I can’t survive without him and his money. Who was I kidding? I was only at the top of the food chain because I was a parasite and I latched onto others in order to survive.

As much as I am struggling though, I will not let myself crawl back to my family’s life supply of fresh blood. When I willingly became homeless, I thought I’d need to depend on others to survive, but I’m desperately trying to become independent. If I rely on others, I might not survive.

My favorite parts of the day are when I get lost among the crowds. I can almost feel normal, and that I’m not homeless. I imagine I’m a tourist visiting for the first time. Sometimes I pretend I’m from a suburban town on Long Island with a wife and kids waiting at our three-bedroom house. No one pays much attention me, nor do they notice my putrid smelling skin. I don’t feel any different from them until my stomach churns with a painful hunger.

When I’m walking between the people, they don’t know that I haven’t eaten in five or six days. They don’t know I have no home. They don’t care, either. Some might, maybe, but since they don’t know I’m a vagrant, they are not aware of my self-inflicted starvation.

Hunger walks amongst us daily; it may even be in our backyards. Hunger has no face, only a vengeance. Hunger isn’t always just the bald man without any teeth, holding a cardboard sign in New York City.

Hunger is haunting. Silent, slow, and sadistic.

I’ve been wandering for quite a few hours now, only stopping once to take a leak in a bathroom at a pizza joint. The streets are never deserted, but the large groups have diminished, and I want to cry again. Dusk has fallen and the streetlights are falling on me as if they were spotlights. If people didn’t know I was homeless, well, they know now.

Nights are the worst. When the people begin to trickle onto trains and make their way home, I am reminded of how lonely life has become. Darkness inflicts a depression so deep even hunger is sometimes quieted.

It’s getting cold now. I think I heard someone say it was thirty-six degrees. Four degrees less and it’d be considered freezing, but I don’t care what the thermometer reads, every damn bone in my body is shaking. Then again, it could very well be the mere fact that I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten.

I’m sitting on the steps behind some wannabe Italian restaurant, practically salivating as the potent combination of tomatoes and basil tease my nostrils. Many times I have contemplated walking into a restaurant, ordering a hearty meal, and skipping out on the check. I’m desperate, and the thought crosses my mind a few too many times, but I figure I’ll just wait. Every once in awhile I’ll get lucky and catch the scrap pieces of bread the chef dumps out at the end of the night. If I had to guess, based on the blackness of the sky, I’d say it was nearing 8 PM.

The darker it gets, the colder I become. My torn sweatshirt and jeans have nothing on the harsh New York winter. As I sit, the rattling of my bones ricochets through my hollow stomach, serving as yet another reminder of how stupid my decision was.

With the occasional scampering of a raccoon or rat, the alley is mostly empty. Shrill sirens sound in the near distance and the obnoxious volume of honking taxis drown between the concrete buildings. The noise makes for a comforting backdrop and I very well could sleep against the sewer smelling dumpster but as I’ve learned last week, alley’s like this one are prime targets for drug dealers and prostitutes.

I’ll figure out where I sleep later but right now I just need food. My once dire need for alcohol has slowly been replaced with the urgency of hunger. Perhaps my bones are rattling due to my lack of nutrients as opposed to the frigid air.

I’m a wild animal withering in the woods, hunting mercilessly for prey. I call this the waiting game. If the restaurant doesn’t abandon their bread within the next twenty minutes, I’ll wander the poverty stricken streets in search of another.

At the sound of my screaming stomach, my eyes wander to the putrid dumpster resting against the greasy brick wall. I conjure the image of rancid leftovers and scraps of dirty containers and wonder if I should start picking through it, although chances of finding edible pieces of food are probably as slim as finding a winning lottery ticket. Just six months ago, I wouldn’t dare of walking out on a check, and I sure as hell wouldn’t dive through a dumpster for food. I still don’t want to but hunger is dominating my pride.

Just as I’m about to approach the dumpster, a small figure catches the corner of my gaze and my first instinct is to hide. There’s a dilapidated stack of boxes tossed to the side of the dumpster and I make a dive for it, hoping the other person won’t catch me. I know loitering in an alley isn’t necessarily illegal, but I don’t want to be seen.

I originally thought it was a restaurant worker but as my blurry vision begins to focus, I realize the person is doing exactly what I had planned just minutes before. He’s foraging through the dumpster, looking like the epitome of a scavenger, throwing debris through the air and nibbling on everything. As I get a closer look, I realize it’s not just a person but it’s a young, famished boy. The night is so black, I can’t tell if he’s dirty or if it’s his skin color--perhaps he is both dark skinned and bathed in dirt. His frame is tiny, mirroring that of a seven or eight-year-old but he is certainly no younger than ten. He is careless but efficient, looking as if he does this on a daily basis and I almost feel ashamed for pathetically watching. It’s like he’s the animal being showcased on Discovery Channel, innocent of the fact he is being viewed for entertainment as he’s simply trying to survive.

Jealousy pangs through my insatiable stomach, watching as the young boy discovers a slab of chicken scrap. Sure, it’s probably spoiled and crawling with insects, but it’s food, and I want it.

I need it.

We could fight; I could easily crush all eighty pounds of him and steal the meat right from his grasp. I think of the Discovery Channel again. I’m the lion, preying on a young wolf.

Fierce hunger drives my movement, prompting me to stumble over the boxes and causing the young wolf to freeze. Our dark eyes collide in fear and he jumps out of the garbage filled bin.

“Wait!” I call out, but it’s too late. He’s already sprinting down the alley, the piece of chicken clutched in his filthy hand.

I sigh in frustration, and allow my icy bones to melt against the boxes. I’m far too tired to search for food, yet my biggest struggle is deciding whether I’m weak from a lack of a proper meal or from sleep deprivation; perhaps it is a combination of both.

Slowly, my eyes begin to close. It’s a vicious cycle that’ll begin again in the morning. A cycle I have created for myself. A constraining cycle we all construct for ourselves and have the opportunity to break free at anytime, if our inner strengths permit.

Maybe weakness is hidden strength.

As I drift off to sleep, my mind thinks of the young boy. He is helpless and fending for himself in a learned hopelessness.

He was born into the concrete jungle, equipped with the skills of adaptation, whereas I ventured out into the wild, completely naïve.

He didn’t choose to be homeless or hungry--I did, and what a mistake that was.