The Fear of Being is Greater Than the Fear of Death.

They say exchanging money for the precious asset of time lubricates the gears of capitalism. I have nothing more to exchange, nothing to take. My time is my own, it is not for sale. Society has no room for a person who does not want to trade their time for paper. I spend my time wisely. I catch fish, forage for fruits and harvest potatoes, truffles and mushrooms. I read books and look at the stars. The ocean sings to me, the warm breeze bring scents from flowers and trees.

My sister Sara is four years older and visits me once a month in a large boat she purchased with her husband. She brings me books, brown rice, green teas and materials for my shack that I have built. I did not want her to do this, but she feels compelled.

Like it was her fault that I'm here.

It's not.

We talk about the same things each monthly visit. My life doesn’t change much, so we talk very little about myself. I'm happy to listen to Sara, but I have in interest in the outside world.

My sister tells me the advancements in cooking devices, coffee machines and fishing items that are apparently here to make your life better. I remember seeing the commercials as a child.

"Gives you more time to yourself," she said with wide eyes and a beautiful smile.

"But where is the joy in creating and completing something?" I asked.

But the free time is spent on the couch, watching television or drinking alcohol. Relaxation now, is to numb the mind and distract. All because of 'the job', the time you trade. The time you give. But what else are you really trading? The transaction is more than the ticket price. The hidden taxes of being burnt out; becoming an alcoholic; reliant on opium based painkillers and mood dimmers.

The more you own, the more you fear it will be gone. Others identify you with these objects, and these things give you meaning. Happiness. Fulfillment. The more you have the more you suffer. Fear of failure is to lose everything but the fear fails to come once you let go.

Our mother worked hard, but she drank harder. Working in a mental hospital will do that to just about anyone. Mark was my father, he worked in construction. He would come home, beaten and tired. They both drank.

Anything to get over the day. Pour me another.

Arguments started and he took off. That was the last I saw of him. Money was tight. She increased her hours.

Most nights our mother would just come up and cry as we laid down, hugging us. Exhausted from the day. Her breath smelt of malt whiskey and stale tobacco. One day she got caught stealing medicine and got fired.

She increased her drinking. Day and night.

Blamed me for Mark leaving. I was ten years old. It confused me. I started to think that it was my fault. How could I have made him leave? Tell me and I will fix it. I will try. I had my father's features. His eyes, hair and nose. I’m sure she looked at me, drunk out of her mind and felt contempt. Many nights she made me pay for this.

The transaction is more than the ticket price.

I was ten years old when she first struck me. Sara would cry, tell our mother to stop. But it didn’t help.

"Here's the pain you've given me. For all I have given up." she said, her words slow and slurred. The air smell of sweet whiskey as she unplugged the power lead from the clock and wrapped it around her fist. The cord whipped as it cracked the still air, my tongue ached and bled as I clenched my jaw hard. Teeth puncturing. The warm iron taste of blood slowly filled my mouth.

She would have little memory of this in the mornings. The hangover replaced the rage.

She bought men home from the bar. Decent, hard working men, but it didn't take them long to see she was damaged. They too would leave. That too would be my fault.

It was hard to concentrate at school. Home work began getting more difficult, I was in grade five or six. Sara would help me. But at times she couldn't and I had to ask Mum. She would sometimes help, but other times play cruel games.

"Sure, come here honey, what is it?" She asked as she blew a plume of white silvery smoke into my face. The sound of ice clinking in her glass as she placed it down. Then she would take her cigarette out of her mouth as I showed her my homework, pointing out the problems I had. Then the cigarette would be put out on me. The acrid smell of burnt flesh and hair.

"There’s your fucking problem!" she scowled.

Sara and I left home when I was 14, Sara spoke up about what was happening to our neighbor and three months later we moved in with an adopted family. Their names were Troy and Wendy. I didn't trust them, I said little and kept to myself.

Troy and Wendy weren't bad people. They loved us. They loved Sara.

The best memory I have is playing with Sara under their big old Maple tree. We would chase each other around, falling over onto the leaves laughing. I stayed there for three months before screwing it up.

The past left me easily triggered

One night Troy put us to sleep. We had separate rooms, something I hated. I missed having night talks with Sara. Wendy had just come back from a work event that night and came in to check up on us. I could smell the alcohol when she entered the room. She lent over to me. I screamed, climbed the curtains and threw my desk chair against the window. It shattered into pieces. My feet and hands bled as I tried to escape through the window.

I was to be kept in my room on the occasions that Troy and Wendy had friends over. I was an embarrassment. Unpredictable in my behavior. I would hear laughter down stairs. They adored Sara.

One night I over heard Wendy talking to Troy -- "He can't be helped."

Not long after that I ran away. It didn't take me long to see that nights were the hardest part about street living. Drunkards stirred trouble with me, and fights always ensued. I would wake up to being kicked or pissed on. I then avoided alleys, parks and under bridges. Instead kept hidden on roofs or under parked trucks at gas stations. The engines still warm.

At night I would leave notes for Sara in a hole in the old Maple tree. I deeply missed her in those times. She was my rock and someone I deeply trusted. I always looked forward to reading the letters my sister wrote. I would run back from the Maple tree as fast as I could, her pages flapping in the cool night air. Back into my safe area.

One week I hadn't heard anything from her, there were no letters from her. Later she had told me they went on vacation in the mountains. Skiing.

She begged me to come to school with her, told me it would be good for me. I had been on the streets for just over a year. School would just lead me to more failures, I told her. Sara didn't stop asking and her bright green eyes gave me hope. She believed in me. The problem of me having no legal guardian only exacerbated an already uncomfortable situation. Wendy had Troy's ear and there was no hope there. It also reinforced my belief that the system was meant to keep people like me out.

Around this time, I found alcohol would help with my anxiety. I drank throughout the day. I had it figured out. I felt normal. Whatever money I had, went to alcohol. I became the perfect model for society, however the alcohol just amplified my anger and I became just as triggered.

Sara went to collage over the next several years and alcohol took her place.

Early one morning I rolled out from under a truck and was caught by the driver. His name was Karl and he worked in a warehouse. Bought me breakfast, I was famished.

"I can get you work, boy. If you want to get your life back on track," he said.

He wrote down the address on a napkin and pushed it towards me. Karl genuinely wanted to help me. But I felt nothing.

The napkin sat in my pocket for thirteen days before I looked at it again.

I was introduced to a man in a bright yellow vest, hard hat and jeans. His name was John.

"Ok son, you've just gotta wrap these and then place them in them there boxes," he said.

I did what he wanted.

"you need to move faster kid! We are getting backed up. Time is money" He yelled.

It’s cheaper to burn people out then to hire extra help.

I only managed a week there before I was let go. The pressure was building, alcohol fueled my anger and my lack of people skills got me into a fight with a co-worker. He said something sarcastic to me about how I was packing. I was confused, I didn't know what he meant. People laughed, I reacted. Punched him in the throat. I was fired. I was fifteen.

I had other manual labour jobs over those years, but they all ended with me screwing it up. Stealing, drinking and situations that could have been resolved without violence. I take blame in that, but aren't we all just products of our environment?

At around twenty-five, I lost interest in trying to fit in. Alcohol's worst side kept showing up and I stopped drinking. The little I had went on a cheap orange canoe and a dark green tent. My large backpack was filled with supplies; various vegetable seeds, small tarpaulin, fishing lines, rope, Books and pens. I wanted to get away, needed to.

It took me three weeks to paddle to the island. I was so exhausted that I passed out, the breakers had capsized my canoe and I washed up on the wet sand.

I sometimes hear planes fly over. And on clear days I can just make out the city. It’s a fearful place. A place where others determine who you are with the things you have. A place where people are fighting each other to be on top. Respect means nothing without money and where the only way you get through the day is with pills and alcohol. It’s where people attack you, give you orders, because of their own insecurities and fears. A place of horrors. A place of nightmares.

The transaction is more than the ticket price.

I still wake up from hearing my mother's footsteps, the stale smell of tobacco on her breath. I sometimes think of the things she must have felt and her own insecurities and fears that led her to do the things she did.

But all that pales in comparison to my world here. My days are filled with colour and meaning.

I threw out my ticket. My time is my own.