A couple of weeks ago, This is Haslemere featured the incredible story of a wonderful gentleman who had found himself homeless in Haslemere. Edge Dweller was a beautifully written account of how he had managed to find hope, connection and companionship on his journey. In his own words, it wasn't a story of charity but instead of dignity. 

The reaction to his words was amazing - so many of you commented what a talented writer he is. And so we reached out to him asking if he would consider sharing more of his work with us. We're pleased to say that he agreed. This monologue was written on his second night experiencing homelessness in Haslemere.

We also wanted to let you know that this weekend, he will be moving to a room in Liphook. Whilst this accommodation is not a permanent solution, it means that he will have a safe space and roof over his head for the time being. 

A Monologue: (Part I)

Who Bears The Night.

By A. K. Sharma Jr.

I have walked with the night, not as a stranger,

but as one who knows its breath.

Its silence does not frighten me.

It is the only thing that has not lied.

I do not ask the night for answers,

I ask it to stay.

To witness me as I walk—not forward, not back—

but along the seam where grief becomes light.

There is a clock above me.

It tells me nothing.

It does not mourn, does not rejoice.

It simply ticks,

as if time were a wound that never closes.

I saw a man once,

a stranger, perhaps.

I dropped my eyes.

Not out of shame,

but because I had no words

that would not betray the truth.

And somewhere,

in a place I cannot name,

a voice—yours,

asks me who bears the night?

I do.

And you do.

And we do.

Together,

even if we never meet.

Monologue (Part II):

The Friend Who Walks Without Words

I used to turn away.

When grief came walking out of the night,

I mistook it for a stranger.

Its silence frightened me.

Its shadow stretched too long,

too close to the ache I had buried.

But grief was never a stranger.

It was a friend I had forgotten.

A friend who does not knock,

who does not speak,

but who understands the weight of unslept nights

and the language of breath held too long.

Grief does not judge.

It does not ask me to explain.

It walks beside me,

matching my pace,

even when I falter.

And now,

when I see it coming,

I do not turn away.

I nod.

I make room.

I let it walk with me

through the streets that do not answer,

under clocks that do not care.

Because grief,

like the night,

is not here to punish,

But to witness.

Acknowledgements

Robert Frost’s poem ‘Acquainted with the Night.’