Walking is an abstract thing; a projection of purpose and desire -a multi-layered portrait of the human condition. It's the troubled man's soul mate. I'm walking right now -aimlessly albeit; but there is a modernist beauty in 'f*ck all'- away from the repercussions of my handiwork -with a wry smile on my face, a shriek shocking my bones and an ironic twist the spokesperson of my countenance. Welcome to the world of the brave, the bold and the ugly.

Welcome to urban squalor at its weakest; welcome to my world. NO; scratch that. Welcome to the world I inhabit. NO; scratch that. Welcome to the world that's taken me in.

I know it's sometimes hard to imagine the sensitive guy being in fact strong, and the hard nut being in fact soft, but I believe -from personal experience anyways- that inherent in all of us is a synonym generator that makes what we are on the outside, the opposite of what we really are. To the outside I appear down-and-out, mutilated beyond repair......even smoked and re-smoked. And yes to a certain degree I am all these things -I can admit to not being a force of nature- but over the remaining degrees, you'll find that in fact more than anything, I've been living in contrast to having being lived.

Hope is a feeling that's never lost in the psyche......even when it seems lost, it's most likely presenting itself as despair; and there is a silver lining in despair......its called simplicity. This is why I have the wry smile, this is why an irony has shocked me.....this is why I walk aimlessly. Fact is, I'm incapable of ever being who I am, not due to my being a hypocrite or because I lack decisiveness. No, none of those; rather I'm not desperate enough for it. Desperacy is an oft-maligned thing, but ugly duckling as it is -it is what drives us to be our best.

I know you're wondering why I've taken time to talk with you -well, to be honest I don't have that much time actually; but what I have I choose to give because I'm kind.....very kind yes. Very kind and thoughtful -and as such I also know that it's not a good thing to be alone. Now it's too bad that downhill has always being faster than uphill because it restricts me now but let it be known that right before the end, I saw the keys to Kingdom. I am giving to the key -SINGULAR- to you.

Now I appreciate that I'm probably better-off than some, with some even wishing they were me.....but, you know, I'm don't want to be me; pyrrhic victory is a rough, rough experience.

I came from a poor background. An only child raised by parents sat firmly on the borderline of health and having me get dealt a hard blow at a very young age. I was orphaned by 3, roamed the streets 2 days later, entered school for the first time by 12, expelled by 16, and back on the street 20 minutes later. At first, I sold newspapers for a dollar each working for the local newspaper 'Sycamore Herald' -there I got another opportunity to read and write. By 5 each day I was done -another 8-hour shift polished off. By 6 each day, I was arriving home. Simple life huh? I laugh at the memory. There was this particular day, I was heading home. Where was home? Home was a tree-house at the end of Sycamore Street -the street famous for its trees; the tall oaks, horse chestnuts and the first Sycamores to be planted in all America. I was away from all this though; I was way down the road, through a little inconceivable crack and on into the backyard of my favorite aunt, Aunt Jane -the nicest woman in the world. I'd eat my dinner, watch some TV and slowly wander back to my safe haven -the tree house.

This particular day was going to be different; I felt it. The clouds, the rain, and the sunshine that eyed me......despite all -they gave it all away. So up to the tree house I went, a fairly tidy space barely furnished. A mattress and a light bulb was all I needed; a mattress and a light bulb were all I had. When my parents died in a car accident, nobody showed any interest in them or me. Soon, the local council decided to take it upon themselves to cater for their funeral; they bought me a suit for the occasion -that was the only piece of cloth I had for the next 3 years. Somehow and for some reason, when you're down in the doldrums, words have a habit of getting out slow. My Aunt Jane, for example didn't know I was indisposed, felt that my parents were alive and was shocked to find me one day on Sycamore Street -haggard, clothes tattered, guts splattered on the pavement.

I had no intention of meeting her; I didn't even know where she lived. I was a rascal at that point -I'd even mastered looking out for myself. A couple of breakfasts and dinners missed here and there.....nothing too out of the ordinary, nothing too different from my parent's house. I'd got in trouble again for stealing from a grocery and for reasons best known only to the grocer; he set his dog after me. Oh and boy was I mauled; I was bruised and battered. I got away though -thanks to those big trees that hid me and a girl who called for help. 6 years of age and already I'd began to feel what it felt like to have nobody. I had begun to feel what it felt like to be insignificant. I cried for the first time in a long time that day. I didn't deserve that. I felt despondency and I didn't like it one bit. Aunt Jane took me off the street and after hearing my story -she was pained; deeply pained. Concerned for my wellbeing; she fed me, clothed me and preserved me from the world. Those 3 years I'd been out there scarred me; I scavenged and failed miserably, I learned cynicism and defeatism and those inadequacies harangued me, I fought and lost 'strived and came short' -I was just 6 and already I had a misguided picture of what of it was to be alive.

For 6 years my Aunt Jane hid me from the world. I refused to interact with it, or to circumlocute with reality, I even rejected any advances to patch things up with life. There comes a time in a man's life, when he's had enough and will not break his balls for nothing; I'd gotten to that stage pretty quickly. I'd given up on fairytale; and I'd come to realize that to get whatever it was I wanted, I had go it alone. At age 12, I finally agreed to be schooled -it was a great experience. They say that kids have the potential to be rather mean-spirited -well, I got on very well. I wasn't going to take the back seat, hell no. I wasn't going to be a pet; I refused to take lunch to school, I refused to be walked or driven to school, I refused to comb my hair nicely and give a crap; I'd gone to school for one thing and one thing only -to learn to be me.

Aunt Jane was surprised at the maturity; I sometimes thought she maybe even felt bad that she was almost no longer needed -I've always regretted having caused such. She worked as a tailor -she was a hard-worker, I'll give that to her. She was never late once -always on time with the clothes she mended. She never married, "once in love" she told me "but never intoxicated" she explained. She did well to take care of me -never having had any experience with children, more so, one in my disposition. She died two years ago, peacefully in her sleep at the grand old age of 89; the eldest on my mother's side. I was right beside her -I kissed her on the cheek right before she let out her last breath. I loved her with all my heart. Whilst I grew up raised by a drunk for a dad and an adulterous mother -my Aunt Jane, rock, was 'Thank God' being prepped for me.

That particular day, that day that was going to be different; the day that was the making of me didn't try to hide its true colors. As I climbed up the purpose built step ladder leading up to my tree-house; I could sense nature watching me, I could make out its smiling face as I perilously walked into what it knew to be some sort of abyss. Suddenly, one of the rungs collapsed; not a problem, I'd scaled heights before. Next, I noticed that a presence was in the room; the heavy breathing, the rancid smell -with an almost sulphuric tinge....the Devil's advocate was here. He was there, waiting, come to get me. This foe hypothesized my life story, seduced me with his tall tales of bravery, cowardice and eventual success. He made me see a way out of my situation; he made me feel important again. I was a guy of 18, living in a tree house at the back of his Aunt's house; no hope, no friends and no prospects. I was bubbling with life but rather than living this life, I was letting it seep into the receiving pores of an unknowing and ungrateful Sycamore.

This foe revitalized me; he spurred me on and made feel important -for the first time in my life- in the grand scheme of things. At school I'd learned about freedom and dreams and hope. I understood what it meant to aspire, I understood what it meant to be free; I understood independence and liberty and equality and fraternity. I had learned how I could be me and all that this foe wanted was that I use this understanding of my role in the world to help further the human cause. He departed at 8 o'clock that night -his trust in me was so great, he left in his wake 9 kilos of cocaine and back account details. 40% of the earnings were mine -the remainder was to be wired into the account.

I thought long and hard; Aunt Jane didn't need me, I didn't have anyone else to please and I was young and had nothing to lose. So I began the next day. I started selling the papers in the wrong side of town -my boss, the newsagent, was surprised, but as long as the money came in; no problems. To keep up appearances, the deal was simple: if you wanted some stuff, you bought a paper. I was good at the job, I was a hard bargainer and I held my nerve well. I was prepared to take the world for all it had because it did the same to me. I never once tried the stuff mainly because I never once had the opportunity I guess -hot cakes couldn't sell any faster than the product I peddled. I was always too busy to think of trying it. In not too long, I was in the money and I was relatively happy. I went out, I enjoyed myself but never once saw my foe again.

2 months later, I was arrested for possession of illegal drugs. My tree house was searched but I knew nothing would be found, I wasn't surprised. I remember the stout defense given me by Aunt Jane when the police came to the house. I remember the immediate look she gave me from the doorway as she heard the details, as I ate my favorite food that she'd prepared for me. Her heart sank lower that night than the Titanic. I'd have preferred my nails getting plucked off than see her face. There is nothing worse than getting slapped in the face by reality as it tells you that you have messed up big time. I was sentenced to 20 years; I died.

3 years ago at the age of 38, I set about re-inventing myself. The day I was released, I went back to that grocery and took me as many things as I liked -I looked the grocer in the eye and he said nothing. I walked away. 2 months later, I had gotten back for myself my old job selling newspapers, I had rented a house, even started saving for a mortgage; but all this was in preparation to go back and see Aunt Jane: My rock.

She visited me every two weeks for the first year of my time in prison. Then over the next couple of years, she only came by to celebrate my birthdays; she even started celebrating hers in the prison -as an excuse to keep me company. The last few years, she didn't come anymore; she just sent cards till eventually no more cards came. I know it was testing for her to put up the bravado she did; and she was no hypocrite. There is no way you couldn't have loved her though, even the prison guards gave her freedoms others didn't get. And although I think she still felt bad for not being there when my parents died; I knew she did it all out of love. I believe it was love. During those 20 years I learned what it was to live -to be alive. To live is to love.

I made sure that I had established myself before ever thinking of visiting her. I had to make myself worthy -well, as worthy as I could get. "Glad you're home son" she said. "I made your favorite". And there for the second time in my life, I broke down. I didn't deserve it. After eating, I apologized profusely again for the shame I'd brought to her and outlined to her the changes I had made since my release. She didn't blink an eye and she didn't have to; nothing I could do could erase my betrayal. And she made sure I knew it.

She signed the house on Sycamore Street over to me just before she died but I refused to take it, yet she made me promise I'd take it and keep it.

"Now you have a home" she said.

When she was at last breath two days later, just before I kissed her, I said to her "Aunt Jane, you are my home" and with great effort she opened her eyes, and took me in, and closed her eyes again. I died again.

Her funeral took place on a most appropriate of days, the day my parents died. Now that day no longer possesses the memory it did; Aunt Jane has not only affected my future, she has re-jigged the past. She showed me that love was the key. Love is self-respect and self-respect is the principal thing.

I'm walking down the street aimlessly; perhaps heading for the grocery to help myself to a fruit or two. A few minutes ago, I stood in Aunt Jane's backyard and I wished I could have some of my life back again. I'm 40, not getting any younger and I've nothing and nobody but memories. I saw the Sycamore blossoming and I don't know if it was envy or enlightenment but with a wry smile on my face, a shriek that shocked my bones and an ironic twist the spokesperson of my countenance, I set it on fire. And I watched it burn. I remembered thinking that it was sucking my life through its pores those many years ago; well, there and then, satisfaction painted my face. Not at my expense!

I arrive now at the grocer's shop about to pick two of the ripest clementines I think I have ever seen and a bunch of grapes, but I'm being stopped by this.......beautiful woman of sorts. Certainly advanced in age; I know I've seen this face somewhere. First she deters me with her right hand on my chest which I methodically remove, and now she uses her left hand which I notice has no band on the ring finger. "Don't you touch any of these! Why do you keep stealing from my father?" she asks. "You saved me from the dog" I say. "Oh, you" she says, sounding scarily regretful. "How did you get on?" she inquires. "Let me buy you drink" I say. She scrutinizes me closely -watching to see me flinch- and right as she's about to answer, I interrupt "Best we be on our way then". She smiles a little, and tuts and says "Lead the way".