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The echo of the crusty, hardened voice that projected through the intercom, perpetuated my anxiety. My eyes darted at every figure, inspecting the danger that I may have been in. Hands trembled. I had been craving freedom for months, this is not what I had expected. “The first few days are always the hardest”, I reassured myself in disbelief. I sat patiently. Curled up tightly in my coat retaining all the warmth I could. I felt the hurricane through the rotting tree branches as the moonlight sprayed onto the park benches. The bitter cold truly gave a perfect aura for reflection. Isolation can create insanity or rejuvenation depending on how quiet we make the mind. “Just a few more hours”, I whispered to myself. I shivered as my mind began to spiral and whirl with the wind, as the realisation dawned on me. I was to be homeless for a night. “No beds available”, according to the man on the intercom, in the only hostel for kilometres. I now had the absolute freedom of choice - of many, many drenched wooden benches in the park, across from the hostel. The restless sleeping, in public view. An attraction observed in contempt by the more privileged. Murmurs of strangers that scurried past me. A cracked and pale veneer washed over my hands as my stomach turned and ached. My throat ripped and dry, yearning for a bottle of water. The eyes of shame glared at me. I felt less of a human being for sleeping outside. The isolation frightened me. I had been ostracised from a place I had lived in for less than 24 hours. I was pining for a conversation to make me feel less grotesque. I laid and listened as my mind became a firing squad. Cynicism is to be expected. Experience may be the only way to adjust prejudice. No one ever stands too close to somebody who seems homeless. Is homelessness a disease that infects people who interact with the less fortunate? A heaviness filled my heart. I had nobody in England and nowhere to sleep, for only one night. 12 hours or so that I had to freeze in the bitter cold and I had never felt luckier. Exhausted, I wrapped myself tightly in a windbreaker of backpacks. Alone, my fingertips caressed the morning dew off my midnight grey trench coat. The fleeting moment of solace from the perpetual pounding of my mind. The sky illuminated my huddled formation on the bench, in pink and blue strokes. The puffed pigeons landed on the cracked concrete and danced. I began to become quite envious of the life of a pigeon; the simplicity, the lack of judgement and the freedom. I wiped my sleepless eyes and inspected my surroundings. Blooming purple flowers with the shamrock green leaves traced the cracks on the sandstone building opposite. Cinnamon stained chairs and rounded tables were sat outside a boutique café. The relentless beauty of our surroundings rarely gets appreciated. My eyes examined each person as they came and left through the creaking door of that building. A young girl had begun to examine me through the stained-glass window with hopeful curiosity and a pinch of pity. The door creaked and she bounded towards me. Her mother’s face drooped in cautious dismay. The girl raised her hands towards me and muttered gently, “My mum noticed you were out here in the cold and we wanted to give you something”. Baffled and grateful I mumbled, “Thank you both, so much”. The young girl disappeared into the café as I glanced down at the croissant in a rough white serviette and smiled. The paranoia and cynicism melted. I travelled to have freedom and attained a night of the most humbling experience, on a cold park bench, on the other side of the world.