Surviving

I often wonder what it's like to hear whispering's inside my head, how scary it must be to see things that nobody else seems to see.
I look at my client with his dark sunken eyes and wild hair and can't even imagine what it must be like to be him.
"I'm a survivor" he says, and he certainly is, spending most of his life homeless with little social contact.
What must it be like to count on a dumpster for food, or a soup kitchen if you haven't been banned from one...
How must it feel to spend the night curled up in the corner of an abandoned building or to live with dozens of other people in one room for months....
My "guy" is resolute in his unwillingness to sign a piece of paper that might make it possible for me to speak with his family, to be able to determine what sort of help he could get, aged and impaired as he is, yet able to speak for himself, not quite impaired enough....
He is polite yet gruff, "not right" but just "right" enough for court.
He is likable and we joke a little and I try to cajole him..."hey, I could help you at least have three hots and a cot bud..."
"nah" he says, smiling...."I'm a survivor" he says again and I smile too..."yup, you sure are."
My "survivor" goes back to jail and I go back to my desk, and my phone, and my hope......