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Homeless Quotes

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Homeless Quotes

“We are homeless enough in this world under the best of circumstances without going to any special effort to test our capacity to be more so.”

“I remember one time we were walking into a grocery store and an old man was ringing a bell for the Salvation Army. I asked my dad if we could give him some money and he told me no, that he works hard for his money and he wasn’t about to let me give it away. He said it isn’t his fault that other people don’t want to work. He spent the whole time we were in the grocery store telling me about how people take advantage of the government and until the government stops helping those people by giving them handouts, the problem won’t ever go away… I believed him. That was three years ago and all this time I thought homeless people were homeless because they were lazy or drug addicts or just didn’t want to work like other people. But now I know that’s not true. Sure, some of what he said was true to an extent, but he was using the worst-case scenarios. Not everyone is homeless because they choose to be. They’re homeless because there isn’t enough help to go around. And people like my father are the problem. Instead of helping others, people use the worst-case scenarios to excuse their own selfishness and greed.”

“If they’d caused you pain, I’d never have been able to live with myself,” he said as he backed up a step. “You might want to find another place to sit. Those idiots could cook up a plan for revenge.” “I can’t leave.” Green Eyes took a huge breath. “This is the only place where I get to see you.” He looked like a man who’d just bet his entire fortune and laid his cards on the table.”

“More often than not, people who are obsessed with their desires and feelings are generally unhappier in life vs. people that refocus their attention on service to others or a righteous cause. Have you ever heard someone say their life sucked because they fed the homeless? Made their children laugh? Or, bought a toy for a needy child at Christmas time?”

“When the elevator doors open there is only one other person inside it, a homeless man with electric blue sunglasses and six plastic grocery bags filled with rags. "Close the doors, dammit," he yells as soon as we step inside. "Can't you see I'm blind?" [...] From the back, the homeless man shoves between us, his bounty rustling in his arms. "Stop yelling," he shouts. though we stand in utter silence. "Can't you tell that I'm deaf?”

“I stared down at my hands and saw the blood coat them, how warm and real something felt when it wasn’t just ink and stains. This was life and I was holding it in my hands. I drew my eyes back up and beneath the flickering streetlight and the throng of drunken cattle, I saw nothing else but the dead girl. Somebody out there had taken her life, her heart, and there I was with her warm, sticky blood. Feeling the most alive I’d felt in years. I had to find him. I just had to.”

“As Elizabeth Blackmar and Ray Rosenzweig wrote in their magisterial history of [Central Park in NYC]: 'The issue of demoncratic access to the park has also been raised by the increasing number of homeless New Yorkers. Poor people--from the 'squatters' of the 1850s to the 'tramps' of the 1870s and 1890s to the Hooverville residents of the 1930s--have always turned to the park land for shelter...The growing visibility of homeless people in Central Park osed in the starkest terms the contradiction between Americans' commitment to democratic space and their acquiescence in vast disparities of wealth and power.”

“He would usually go into the subway tunnels, where he could be alone. That’s where he preferred to get high. There was no one around, but the rats and cockroaches, to see him at his all-time low. He was too embarrassed to be around people whenever he got high. At least, in the tunnels he could hide from the rest of the world.”

“We are all searching for a home. Everybody - consciously or unconsciously - are searching for a home. Somewhere deep within our being is a remembrance that we had ahome. It is very vague, but you have not forgotten itcompletely. It goes on surrounding us like a fog, a thirst and a a longing. It is like a faraway country, where you were happy, blissful and joyous, where there was no anxiety and no anguish, where life was pure bliss, and where life was a dance, a song.  Deep down somewhere that desire and longing still lurks. It still goes on guiding you to find it again. All religions are born out of this longing. It is a feelingthat "I am homeless. This is not the place where I belong. This is not life, this cannot be all, and something more must be there." We do not known what this more is, but it is a persistent feeling that goes on working inside. Sooner or later one has to listen to it, and the sooner one listens, the better, because one never knows when life will be finished. Any moment it may be. If a man becomes  committed and interested in religion when he is young, then there is a possibility that he finds the real home. Meditation is the process to find our real home.”

“Sometimes, he would have to hide from track workers or urban explorers. It amazed him how busy the subway tunnels could be with activity. He constantly asked himself why teenagers would want to lurk around those dark tunnels seeking adventure. What was the point? Personally, he hated being down there. Most tunnels were dark, damp, and dirty.”

“He refused to steal. He would not become a criminal. He would sooner die of starvation, first. Sometimes, he would get lucky and someone would buy him a meal or give him handouts or leftovers. He had no shame, so he took it gladly. A man in his position could not afford to feel pride.”