(Composition, 2016)

Black clouds loom low in the sky. Ash consumes the air. Death rains on Dublin today. (The alliteration makes this opening very strong. It would have been even stronger if the author had varied the length of sentences a bit more.)

The factories plume smoke and dirt into the air. The sky is their everlasting waste disposal. Soot fills the air to darken the bright sky this city once knew. I watch as scrawny children choke, their lungs gasping for fresh, clean air. Air they never knew. Air they never will know. It fills my mouth; a bitter, vile taste. Their mothers pat them on the back, fearing the worst. This is their time. Death has played his final game; he has come for my child. But he never comes. The child’s lungs are coal, black and hard, struggling to see him through the day.

No, Death does not come, and he is left to live another miserable day.

Bodies litter the black alleys. Pungent and overbearing, their smell follows you, like ghosts. They, like everyone else in this hell, have succumbed to tuberculosis. Yet here they lie. Disposed of like rubbish. These people meant nothing to the man who walks by me, trying to wave me on, “impertinent fool”. They do not like it when someone sees their true colours. You’re meant to be a passer-by, ignorant to the larger world. They lack a god here, they tear nature from their city and God with it. They don’t see the wonderful creation in their city, only the greed of men and the plight of those not even considered men.

I hope for good weather as I flit to and fro. I don’t want it to rain. Nobody wants it to rain, for when it rains, the city is black. The city is decay. Rainwater oozes from the sky, dark and foul, to stick to your rags, the buildings, your scrapings of food. The rain falls to kill hope and prosperity. The black water breathes an eternal night onto the city, where no facet of light or beauty can be found.

I make it to the river. There I see my old acquaintances begging for food and scouring any morsel of life they can find. I am no better. My bones protrude from my body, my coat clinging to them out of sheer desperation. They are blackened and decayed by their time here. Any aura of vitality they once had has fled with the wind and left a dead begrudgery in its place. They are not for this world. I am not for this world. I belong where the sun meets the seas, and the trees grow with hope, and anguish is crushed by the beauty of life and absence of greed.

Their river flows green and brown. Diseases run through the centre of their world, like a careless child. It is desperate. It churns and sludges through the world, hating its existence, devoid of life. Men and women walk along it, indifferent to its suffering, ignorant to the pain they cause it. Their factories, their houses, their waste make her ill. The rush and fervour of her youth are swallowed by their greed. Her noises as she moves to the sea cry out for help, the whooshing and sludging, squelching towards the open sea. She knows there is no hope at sea, for her brown will cause the sea to brown and she will play a role in the turning of God’s world.

I watch as orphans descend to drink her water. I plead for them not to. But they cannot hear me. They do not understand. As my cries dissolve, so does the poison, slowly mingling into their blood. In that moment they begin their long, laborious walk down the road of Death. They will not go nicely. Nobody ever does. They will die as they lived, forgotten and unwanted. Then when some other orphan boy sees their rotting corpse, he will not heed the warning on their dead lips.

The dilapidated tenements rise above the streets. An influx of men, women and children come crawling from their home. The door is jammed as ten people fight for an exit from the towering monster. They run from the smell of excrement and disease, running as far as they can to work, or to beg on the streets. Curiosity becomes me. I cannot help but enter.

The plaster and paint crumble from the walls. The green paint is an unwelcoming sight, warning people away. But yet they have no choice. They must suffer this life. I enter the room to be met with fifty makeshift beds. Not even an inch between them. Mothers lie with their sick younglings, and hold them tight against their chests as if I have come to eat them. I cannot bear the sight, frail and wretched, pleading for help in their silence. A small child sits in the corner trying to draw. A rose growing from a chink in the concrete. Maybe all hope is not dead. Maybe he will turn this world around.

Their landlord leaves them to hang dry. Their money is their home, and their home is nothing. A bucket lies in the corner, a defecating smell of defecation? of faeces?. You can taste the despair in the room. I continue through a small nook, where empty containers of oats sprawl across the counter. There is no water for them. They must fetch the green sludge murking past their door. There they will bottle death, have it at their command. Yet they will not know that. They will consume their concoction and unknowingly kill the creators. They will never know what killed them. Only that they fought hunger and won. They will not know a greater enemy lay lurking, ready to strike them down.

I feel the cold brush over my body as I exit the house, out onto the streets. They do not represent the city they inhabit. There remain signs of a greater time when they were clean and new. Georgian and grand. A young girl carries a wheelbarrow, crying through the streets of the cockles and muscles she sells. How I yearn for such luxuries. I remember the taste of fresh fish, plucked ripe from God’s ocean. Her delicacies come from a better place, one where the green touches the sea and doesn’t poison it.

The post office looms high on Sackville Street, connecting the city to the world. The flags of the Empire flap from high above, out of reach of the Irish below, and casts a shadow on the nation below. Men in duffle coats and hats whisper sweet treason, and look in disdain at the blue and red. They huddle in alleys and conspire to throw the aristocrats’ world into chaos and their world into liberation. But then they discharge. Today is not their day. One has failed before. They must take their time to sow the seeds – and reap the rewards.

The police march along the streets. They have come to observe, just as I have. They watch men frolicking to work, not a care in their world. Women go to buy bread when they can afford it. They, like us, are contempt. They know no difference different.

When the police brake into a frenzied sprint, I follow. They grab a young child and fling him against the wall. One of them seizes the loaf of bread from his hand. He begs for mercy; his sister is starving. Yet compassion cannot melt hearts of ice in a city of stone and they hit the child for good measure before leaving. He is not the first nor the last. Children lurk in every corner, waiting to seize the opportunity. These children should not be judged, for their plight is their hope. They may survive a little while longer.

I find a morsel of delight hidden among the bleak streets. I find a huge, lush green. Here, things and life can prosper. Trees grow from the ground to tower over people. The grass can be felt between my feet. I watch as a flower blossoms in a patch of darkness, growing with immense vigour. Here I can feel my creator. I am with him once more. In this place, nature sprouts back to life to consume the senses and overwhelm you with passion. I cry with joy at this newfound land. This is where peace becomes human. This place transcends fear, poverty and wealth. The green is the dream that they will move forward and become better than they ever were. A slight few linger in quiet reflection, having come to escape their dastardly world of greed and corruption. Black turns to green and darkness turns to hope. Some may not be self-aware, but an enlightened few are. Here, I rest my hope in humanity.

I leave this spiritual Heaven to return to the real world. I see boys riding beaten bicycles, wearing brown shorts, shirts and caps. Their cry emanates through the street of the morning paper, hot off the press. Their smiles radiate a new light through the city. It is no longer black and white. They enjoy their life. Many others do. They do not know my joys, they do not feel poor. They feel alive. Some may fie, but they will not die in vain. Let them die for a better day O, Lord!

But I am not made for this world. I am made for the green, for the sea, the salty taste of fish in the mornings. And so I spread my wings and soar, soar to my world, as I leave theirs behind.

Another excellent essay for the same title.

Living on the streets has forced upon me the identity of being an early riser. Every morning, as the daylight spills above the city’s skyscrapers, I awake with it. Daylight is a determined force, seeping into every crack and crevasse of the city. Every murky alleyway, every derelict building, every place where little light of any kind exists, is risen by the morning sun. So as the city rises to begin a brand-new day, I emerge from my sleeping bag and wait for the swarm of worker bees, the colony of the city, to begin their hectic lives.

My invisibility, as a homeless person, affords me the ability to watch a day in the city unfold without any disturbance of any kind. As seven o’clock hits, I can hear the streets throb from the harsh clicking of high heels and dress shoes, which march with a united urgency. I observe the city’s workforce as they begin their days and lives with a sense of ambition and opportunity mine so desperately lacks. The streets are teemed with people dressed exclusively in suits and skirts. They exist in a parallel universe to mine, yet we walk on the same cobbled streets. It is a strange dichotomy, but that’s the reality of city life. I watch them stare straight ahead, with an unflinching focus. The pressures of maintaining a cosmopolitan lifestyle, of grabbing coffee with friends, of going out on the weekend, of paying rent, hangs over their heads every morning as they head to work, the engine that fuels their modern lifestyles.

The smell of coffee and cigarettes permeates the air as I embark on my daily stroll. There is an atmosphere of forced liveliness as people make their way to work, each one of them wishing they could have spent an extra hour in bed. Clothing boutiques, shoe shops and pharmacies draw open their blinds and wait for the first customers of the day. It’s not long before coffee shops are saturated, each customer needing a remedy for the bags under their eyes.

Vehicles bombard every street in view. The sounds of beeping cars, truck engines and bicycle bells run like a record on replay. I watch taxi drivers share disgruntled looks and naïve college freshmen crossing streets too quickly. Car drivers beep at brazen cyclists, who glide past them without caution. It’s a chaotic scene I’m met with every morning.

As the morning eventually rolls into the afternoon, the streets come alive with people weaving in and out of shops. A meek elderly lady exits the newsagent with a carton of milk and loaf of bread. A pack of girls emerge from a clothing store, bursting with laughter as they carry their purchases. A struggling street musician sings and plays guitar, every coin that is thrown at his feet renews his sense of hope. The city is flooded with individuals, each with a different story. I see a thousand different faces every day, I will only ever remember a few.

As I turn a corner, I have to crane my neck to get a glimpse of the sky. Skyscrapers stand a mile high, dominating the cityscape. Concrete has replaced all nature in sight. The roads, the buildings, the pavements all varying colours of grey. I can see my reflection clearly in the large sheets of glass that engulf the buildings. I look overwhelmed by the towering structures that hang above me, trapping the sunlight out. These buildings feel disconnected from the city, far too tall to fit in. I shudder however, as I understand it’s only a matter of time before these tall towers invade and become the defining image of our city surroundings.

As I finally exit the long stretch of skyscrapers, the afternoon comes to a close. Dots of yellow light shine from buildings in the distance, as the navy sky darkens. Vehicles gather in the streets as people head home from work. I walk by people chatting in restaurants, the candlelight dancing in their eyes. It’s date night, I imagine. I enjoy the city this time of the day, the burdens of work are forgotten, and people begin to socialise. There’s an excitement in the step of every passer-by, the potential adventures of the night awaiting.

It’s during this time of day, that the city’s young adults come alive. The streets ring with the sound of laughter, conversation, and music. Alcohol and cigarettes taint the air. I can hear the tapping of high heels, just like I did that morning. It’s a vibrant crowd this time of night. Girls wearing sequinned skirts that sparkle in the streetlight. Rowdy boys cheering and clinking glasses. An occasional wrist fight breaks out, leaving shards of broken glass and beer cans strewn across the pavement. I can hear the music blearing from the inside of the nightclub, causing the ground to vibrate beneath me. Perhaps, I say to myself, its time to go home.

I leave the lively crowd behind, the neon lights and the electric music. I pass by quieter streets, where the city has already fallen asleep. Here, live parents with children, with responsibilities and jobs to go to in the morning. They have already lived out their wilder years of young adulthood.

It’s past midnight once I reach my damp sleeping bag. I crawl inside and grasp tightly on the blanket, grasping the little warmth it provides. Before I shut my eyes, I remind myself that I am not the only person sleeping rough tonight. Dotted about the city, people like me exist, people who don’t belong to society, mere observers of this urban world.