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Musing of a beggar

Sitting on a ragged blanket, a white styrofoam coffee cup at my feet, I took a deep breath to compose myself and shield me from the daily struggle. It wasn’t easy being a panhandler and it sure as hell was not a life for a fifteen-year-old homeless girl.
I shook my head forcing the real thoughts out. They wouldn’t do me any good and would serve only to offset my attempts to reach a state of imperturbability. Once I reached the state of mind-quiet I was reaching for, the growls of the anti-panhandlers would fade away from me. The noises would not become a blight on my soul.
My legs felt as though they were wooden and, as I reached the highest state I could hear only the chirping sounds of birds. I held this sound as I focused on a vision of heaven inside my mind, knowing my eyes had achieved a blank expression.
© Zora Zebic 2016

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