Day 000 – Hour 000: Being Poor
"Being poor is just a mindset. Once one relinquishes those ideals, they'll find themselves in the abundance of wealth."
I read that line three times. Only two words came to mind in response: abosule nonsense!
Normally I'd place a book down gently. This one earned a toss into the corner.
If escaping poverty were just a matter of adjusting your mindset, wouldn't it have already been eradicated? Wouldn't all the hungry people be full by now?
I glanced around the apartment. It didn't take long. My entire world fit inside four walls thin enough to hear the neighbors whisper about things they didn't want me to hear.
The futon sat crumpled three steps from the sink, which itself was a pace away from the bathroom. The kitchen was less a room and more a shelf and a stove. I lived in a single stitched-up breath of space.
The animals in the alley had their own rhythms. The sound of life in this place was constant. Too consistent to complain about anymore.
I stretched once — not out of stiffness, but out of frustration. It didn't help.
My net worth hovered somewhere south of zero. I owed the "bank", owed a few vendors, owed myself. I wasn't just broke — I was negative.
I'd been on my own for nine years. My parents died when I was eleven. No family. No inheritance. No education to finish. The last piece of real furniture I owned had been sold to cover the next two months' rent. Three weeks' worth of food sat in the cupboard — which was a luxury, honestly.
At least I lived alone. If someone tried to break in, they could probably get through the wall faster than the front door. Still, this was my space. Mine. It wasn't permanent, but it was safely temporary — if that makes any sense.
I was at the height of what I called my euntenpural curve — the rare moment when I wasn't on the edge of collapse. It came around maybe four times a year. During those brief spells, I could focus on earning, not just surviving.
So I reached for the most valuable thing I owned: a single sheet of paper. Folded at the corners, rubbed thin in the center.
A list.
Ideas.
All mine.
Childhood dreams written in cheap ink.
I used to show this list to my parents. My mother once said, "One of these ideas will make you a man worth knowing." She passed the page to my father, who smiled and added, "Keep it close. We look forward to celebrating your success together."
They never got the chance.
I looked at the sheet now and ran a finger down the list. Fourteen ideas crossed off. Twenty-two left.
Some were pure fantasy. Some had merit. None had worked.
But I still couldn't bring myself to rewrite it. Couldn't copy it to something fresh. It had aged with me. It knew where I came from.
And even now — especially now — it was the only thing that felt like it belonged to me.