Midnight, Downstairs

Usually at around midnight something gets stuck. I am neither here nor there, sitting out doesn’t help either. slipping on my shoes, I move out of my apartment. The building is dark often, I cannot the lift, they are prohibited at night.

So I do not jump off the building, I do as one should, walk the stairs. every time: a boy in his teenage years, he sleeps on one of the benches, so there is a bed to rest and a roof above him. no way he is able to nap through all of it, or perhaps he gets interrupted when someone goes past him, but isn’t bothered.

He works somewhere and doesn’t have a place to stay. He just comes here to sleep at night.
There is not much age difference, but it bugs me that I get out to breathe, to loosen the grip of walls, and he finds a bit of roof and gets to repose.

I like the confinement of home, the consistency that it represents, the security for some and chains for others. Having a shed is an instinct, without it, there is not much without it, in my mind or I cant understand it,

To be like him is to tank the very impulse, of the generations before me.

No home, no dwelling, but rather he has the city. He works in this harsh city putting up odd jobs yet he can’t afford an abode. Or he can but doing that will mean he cannot send money home, so he tells his family that he has his own place but he doesn't.
He is no beggar. I have seen beggars.

Daily Prompts for FreeWriters
Prompt: Roof

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