It rusted. It’s sitting on my arm, and if I look close enough, the rust has seemingly discolored the skin around it, the dirty tan skin fading to a grey. My eyes trace down my forearm, the grey color had been carried by melting snow, carried from the rusting watch that sat on my wrist to my hand and forearm. It sat, I sat. It rusted, I rusted. The once shiny and silver watch had faded, I had faded. My little spot on the side of the new apartment buildings was like my wrist and the watch that sat on it. As it happens in the city, every building has one extra sleeping accommodation, the small pile of cardboard that everyone passes, the castle of a homeless man. I had sat there for so long through the wind, the rain, snow, the cold, the harsh outdoors, that I had faded onto a small piece of the side of the new apartment complex that I had called my home for a full changing of the seasons.  Somehow, my residue had faded onto the buildings small corner, and made it worse. Like the skin on my arm, somehow darker, and less bright than the rest of me, the corner was less bright than the rest of the building.

Juxtaposition, and misplacement. Like the watch on my wrist, I wasn't meant to sit against the side of that building for so long, and perhaps the only difference between myself and the wall, and the watch on my wrist was that no one cared enough to take me off. No one had removed me. I had taken my watch off several times, at first, its shiny surface was a hope of money, and a hope of getting somewhere where I could be cared about. My watch had found me my spot on the wall, it was the first time I had felt defeated, and I sat down to think about what was next, and contemplate what had went wrong. So much time passed, I kept asking myself the question, how could you have said, “I promise I didn't steal it” more convincingly? The truth is, I owe my watch my humanity, or what’s left of it. The rusty tangle of links and pins that sits on my wrist has given me the time; the second and minute hand no longer working, the hour hand giving me some sense of it. The only humanity I have left, because honestly at this point, I would do anything to have something more.

Flipping pages, writing, communication, each letter is like a taking a deep breath after being held underwater. It’s life I’m getting back in writing again. Communication that I’ve been denied for so long now.

One of my few possessions is a thick bible, given to me by some pastor, thinking that it would help me more than the money it costed to print the damn thing. A pen, I have a few of them, you have no idea how many pens people drop. I've suffered through the winter, and I’ll be honest sometimes I did clutch this book tightly and pray for my life to go on one more day, or to just have it end, but this is where my story changes. I'm writing now with my few pens, communication is a basic part of humanity I want back. Those two paragraphs felt like breathing again, my life was back on the page, even if it’s just there in the margins. I'm going to journal for a little while, somewhere to write down the reflections and thoughts I have time to have.

1st entry:
For behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth,the time of singing has come,and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.

The verse stood out to me, I've never been a religious person, in fact I've been publicly outspoken about my not being so many times. It is however the only reading material I have, and holding this book seems to get me a few more generous donations; they never hurt.

Winter hurts. I would try to sit by one of the windows into the basement of the apartment complex, the light was a comforting friend to my counting through cold nights, counting away the seconds, watching the hour hand on my watch move slowly until it was light. Its not ones fingers and toes that get coldest, it’s your back, and your legs, the concrete, the home of the homeless seemingly trying to suck what little life you have left right out of your spine. I remember being helped sometimes, a few nights a week in a shelter when they had room for people that were as “well off” as I was. If I had the strength, I would have fought to stay. No matter how old, or how young, or how sick, I got to a point where they were all just people who could get me thrown out, who could take my warmth. So it turns out that even in winter the warm places were cold; I was cold, mentally, physically, cold. Winter hurt.

Its spring, I think the economy of wherever I am is failing, more and more houses have what I assume are eviction notices on their doors, and the construction on the apartments, the sidewalk of which I’ve called my home has come to a halt.

Not knowing where you are is so difficult, not being able to communicate. You ask for help, beg for help, cry for help, all you receive is frustration, nothing from others, discouragement from your efforts. Like a dog barking at its owner, busy doing housework, all you want is for someone to care. Myself, like an old dog, having pain, not being able to get rid of it, knowing the end could be near. I barked away, helplessly as snowflakes began to fall. But who would think a man in a suit needed help.

2nd Entry:

Blessed be the Lord! For he has heard the voice of my pleas for mercy.

It’s cast-elan Spanish they’re speaking.

I know where I am, Ainsa Spain. For the longest time, the lone working hour hand moving a decent amount, I cried. There was wood against my back now, the lords book had taken me to his house of worship. I was inside for the first time in weeks. I cried because more than shelters warmth, knowing where I was brought me comfort.

No wonder winter was so cold, I’m practically in the Alps or the Pyrenees, or whatever f***ing mountain range the sun rises over. Hope tastes, tastes like a smile that crosses your face for the first time in a long time. That smile making all the days of expressionless suffering fade, able to joke about the mountains instead of look at them with disdain.

3rd Entry:

But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.

The sun feels good, even though it's just some simple T shirt and pair of shorts I have on now, it feels like I might as well be Jay Gatsby. This place is beautiful; and I've gotten a new bible as well. Hallelujah. They wouldn't let me just walk out with the clothing, I assume I was assured that God would help me in my new found quest to try and not be homeless, or some bulls*** like that. I think they were talking about baptizing me, until they saw how much dirt came off my face as I wiped my face in the suit pants, a fitting goodbye.

I doubt they approved of my writings in the bible that I carried with me, and thus they gave me a clean copy. I left the next day, something about being in a church just didn't feel right, and there was some sort of police officer here earlier talking to one of the fathers, pastors, whatever the hell you call them, monks; I’m nervous. How could they arrest me, I haven't done anything have I?

Ainsa Spain. I think this place would be beautiful, I would have wanted it to be, but when you suffer in a place for so long, all you want to do is leave.That being said, law enforcement is a good motivator as well. I plan to head south.

4th Entry:

Then the Lord God said, “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him.”

I think this is talking about marriage, after all why would you write about friendship in a book where the main character's friends throw him a damn dinner party before he dies instead of getting him the hell out of there. I left Ainsa on a lorry two days ago, bound for here. This place mocks me, I had my apartment building in Ainsa, I was alone. Here there are more nice buildings, and now i'm not alone in being alone. So many more buildings that have one extra living accommodation in the form of a pile of cardboard set out on the concrete, some occupied, some not, so many.

I’m nervous and wherever I am, means nothing. There’s another homeless man who needs my help. I can help, I will help, my fingers are gripping tightly around some form of humanity and dammit I’m not letting go. I need help to help, Something is very wrong with him, he’s sick, or hurting; looking like I felt in the winter. Doctors will help, they’re good people, I want to believe they’re good people, I want to believe they’ll help.

We’re both sat in a hospital waiting room now, waiting, waiting. It feels like an eternity. These few moments are as long as the ones in the winter. I’m writing erratically now, I’ll stop. Sorry.

5th Entry:

For every kind of beasts, and of birds, and of serpents, and of things in the sea, is tamed, and has been tamed of mankind:

Again like animals more than humans, simply told we had to leave. Kicked out of the hospital not because we had a dog, but because we were the dogs. I was too willing to put my faith in humanity it seems, and there is yet a long road ahead of us.

The I, has become a plural, a few days have passed since our hospital visit and by some miracle of god, the old man seems to be getting better. It occurs to me, after all I’ve been through, after not having conversation for so long, and finally having the opportunity, I don't have much to say. I desperately wanted to have a conversation, especially after the hospital event. Some sort of survival instinct of my humanity, I crave to just interact with someone again. I can taste the words that don’t leave my mouth, a bitter frustrating taste.

6th Entry:

A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.

A small group of us are huddled around a campfire; the stars above are beautiful here, and for once I can enjoy it. The feeling of learning to enjoy basic things is frustrating at first, I think its why I was angry at those mountains. They were beautiful, but survival had forced me to hate them, like trying to put ones thumb over a hose, there’s always still a small stream of water that escapes, faster and more powerful than the flow of the water before. Parts of me that loved those mountains were screaming, shouting, begging me to remember that I had to enjoy things to live. It feels good to finally take my thumb off the hose, the power of the water pounding past the skin had left it raw. Time to heal.

One of them spoke in English. I had never even considered trying to ask anyone, hearing the words “I understand you”, for the first time in almost six months brought me to my knees. Something no dog has ever felt before, I felt like I had my humanity back. Not just helping someone get the news paper in the mornings, not just being able to do a few tricks, but being understood. More than breathing fresh air, more than being relieved from a pain, more than weight being lifted off the shoulders of Atlas, this was relief.

The older man I was thrown out of the hospital with was well enough to travel, and we had made it a decent number of kilometers to the small trash can fire. From the few expressions and auditions the man had made at my ramble of gestures, it seems like we would be traveling together; headed for inner Spain now. My guess was right, Spain's economy was going through troubles, talk about housing complexes eighty or so odd kilometers to the west that surrounded the city of Madrid was fanatic amongst the group. Apparently abandoned close to completion a few months before the winter, they were houses, with doors that the world had just forgotten about. I can go there, and try to find some work in the city. The flames tonight had sparked a fire in me. White hot desire to do something, it’s so bright its almost blinding. What will the older man do now, I can’t just leave him in one place each day. He’s not fit to work.

Entry: 7

  After these things God tested Abraham's faith. God said to him, "Abraham!" And he answered, "Here I am."

I have to stay. Barcelona for as long as it takes to get this man help; whoever he is, or was, is fading away day by day. My blind ambition has faded to reality again, and for the first time in a long time, what I need is not what I want.

Entry: 8

For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope

Flipping pages, frustrating, it's like that small sound is mocking, the slish as the thin paper turns, is telling me that I still can't find what im looking for. I’m going to write until I answer my question. My companion, ball and chain, person I have to help, sits beside me asleep. I feel my thumb moving back over the garden hose again, the freshly healed skin peeling away easily at the water's pressure. Im cracking. Leaving now, never seeing him again, I could do it; I want to do it, I just want to have a life again, and I can reach out and touch it, right now, just not quite grab it yet.

I need to stay. I can’t ignore the lesson I learned in the winter, need to help, need to stay human, and not be a dog, running away from home to chase a car. To stay human means I help, but wouldn’t I be more human if I had a home again? A job and a life and a home, is that what makes you human, or is it the ability to let that all go to help someone. God damnit.

Flaking and crumbling, the rust on my watch is dry now, my broken nails pick at it furiously, the skin on my thumb is bleeding, the sharp uneven metal band around my wrist decided to dig in one last time. There has to be some metal left that isn't coated in this rust, only I don't know I’ll have fingernails left to find it. Someone f***ing help this man so I don't have to. Please. What is wrong with this world, can’t you see that there are people that need help, that have screamed for it so many times, they have no voice left, and are forced to write down emotions that peel skin from bone, onto cardboard. Damn this man, damn him and damn me for being a fool enough to try and help someone else when no one helped me. How could I have been so foolish.

Entry 9:

What he did was wicked in the LORD's sight; so he put him to death also.

The watch is broken, the man is broken. That damned hour hand stopped moving shortly after the man did. My rotations of pounding his chest like a rail spike, and pulse checking ended with me tearing the rusted metal band away from my wrist, sending it towards the ground. The rust covered abomination brought me to the realization that I’d failed, and the only courtesy his death would get, was the time.

No one should have to die this way, slumped against the concrete, the damned material that had tried to suck the life out of my spine in the winter had succeeded, found a weaker victim. How can people walk on the most violent and brutal predator that has ever preyed on the human animal. It makes you suffer, makes you cold, makes you lose feeling untill you just fade away. Like a crocodile without the pleasantry of at least biting you first to get it over with before you’re pulled into the water.

Writing is the only thing left here that I can do, again, no one speaks my language well enough to talk to me. The police station is dimly lit and I think I’m a suspect for reporting the body.

How funny, out of all the things I’ve wished for in the past year, all the things I’ve begged for, this wish is granted.