Artisan by Dan Joyce
I wake up every day to nightmares and sleep till noon, hoping they will go away. These nightmares are real, the life I’m living. They have shattered dreams and my reality. The hopes of a future disappearing, I hope to die in my sleep and then I awaken. My days are simple, but not serene. Knowing no one, I have lost many friends and family members. It is though my life is over, yet I keep living.
Some days I beg, panhandle in the shopping center for burgers and cheap cigarettes. At night, I go out to a group or hang in a local bar drinking soda. Still, I talk to no one. Drawing and writing are my salvation. They give this horror a purpose, something to live for, documenting the people that I meet and the places that I go. They are often complimented when I show them the pictures or read them the poetry. Others simply don’t know that I have been doing this. If they did, they really wouldn’t care. It is all part of my living nightmare. Trapped like a rat in a box, I live each day hoping to die.