Bob Dylan — Like A Rolling Stone
Sometimes, I wish I were a famous rockstar; sometimes, I wish I could write protest songs and or write songs to relay to the world what ugly things I’ve seen.

Yesterday night, a friend and I sat in bed, listening to something on my computer, and I told him to come see the things that I’ve seen. “It’s the real world out there … we live in this bubble. Those crack addicts and whores that I meet, they see the world for what it truly is. This man, this man had AIDs. And when I walked to his apartment door, he was shaking uncontrollably from the Cocktail (antibiotics) that he was taking. He was shaking, shaking, shaking, shaking. His eyes glistened with pain as he mustered a thank you. I felt so bad for him and I just wanted to give him his health back and the whore her last $40 for her rent so she didn’t have to go out that night.”

His dark, sad eyes pleaded me to stop. I could tell he was tired from work, so I let it go. He sang me to sleep; he sang me songs about lovely things like falling in love, and he promised he’d let me take him sometime.

I wanted to tell him about Naomi, beautiful, but wrecked Naomi with the coral lipstick and the fiery red hair. I walked her to the corner because she struggled to climb the San Francisco hills in her heels. She was only 40, but I could see the city and the drugs had aged her. She lit a cigarette as we talked. “There were people that died and they weren’t even as addicted to crack like I was. Some people die, even only after a couple of tries. That means there’s a reason I’m still here. I’m still here for a fucking reason.” Her eyes glistened. “I’m smart. I went to college. But it’s so easy to fall back into this. I wish I could just move far, far, far away so that I can’t go back to what’s easy.”

I left her at the corner, so she could go find work. When I saw her on the streets a couple hours later, her eyes were fazed–not from drugs, but from the things she had to do and see–and she turned her face when I tried to look into her eyes.

I entered the apartment of a woman that had degrees on her walls and, unlike the other apartments, did not smell like human waste. She looked at us, but she didn’t really. “Why are you here?” she asked. “Don’t you know how bad it is here?” Her cat looked at us and purred. “You are so brave. It took me years to get out of my depression and to leave this apartment and see the world for what it truly, fucking is.”

Sometimes I’m okay with being just me, passing sandwiches instead of writing songs to change the world.

I want to do something about the ugly, ugly world that I see.