I never sleep alone. Fear and Vulnerability tuck me in each night. I'm an early riser since Vulnerability hogs the covers while Fear mutters and squirms all night long. I arose this morning at 4, a little early for me, and fired up my email and coffee. Scanning my inbox for good news or kind words one message stood out, Regrets from Food Lion, causing my bunk-mates to stir just a few feet away from my desk. I quickly walked away as if the message was a toxin threatening to poison my psyche for the rest of the day. Thanks to coffee and Charlie Rose on the DVR I could distance myself from what I knew that message contained.

I've been unemployed now for over two years. When my unemployment benefits ran out my bunk-mates ran in and have shadowed me ever since. I frantically planned and schemed to the point I laid so much grease of optimism and dreams on the rails that when I flew off the tracks I lost my sense of place. Homeless and alone I received a miraculous offer from a Facebook friend to come to Boston for two months. Two days after arriving it was not to work out. I lasted another ten days spending my time writing my book at the public library, the first in the country or so the sign read, then headed home to be homeless.

Sleeping on a park bench, or rather not sleeping, at the Wheaton public library I wrote First Day Homeless and a new offer arrived. A former co-worker with a home in North Carolina offered space and with a little help I found myself here in this new world. As I write this at the public library I face Christmas day with an ample supply of whiskey and loneliness to keep me warm for the holiday season. I need to be alone. The cloistered life leaves one with only the face in the mirror to turn to for counseling, or confession or the occasional argument. Rationalizations come easy with so much time to ponder what can't be understood. Like writing without an editor, it all reads brilliantly until sometime later that horrible gaffe appears on the page.

Having thrown out all my belongings and most of my dreams and delusions surely some basic employment here in this small town will give me the structure I need. Now nearly three months later the usual routine fills my mornings; applying for jobs, getting no responses, writing or regretting not writing enough, watching movies and television I worry more than I should, and checking my phone for missed calls that never come. Lately I've been speaking out about TSA and feeling once again that the battle for my union that led to loss still has meaning. The optimism returns as I work again on my book just waiting for someone to tell my story and return me to the prominence and respect I never really enjoyed. Then a reminder of my reality arrived late last night and I am left writing and sorting out my dreams and my day. Unlike the hundreds of other employers at least they had the decency to say no:

Dear Ron Moore:

Thank you for your interest in Regional Shelf Merchandiser- Delhaize America position. After careful review of your credentials, we are unable to offer you this position at this time. We will keep your information on file for future reference.

Kindest regards,

The Food Lion Recruiting Team

So I'm not employable or so it seems. Turned down by Food Lion I imagine that it must be my union activism; and I believe for a moment that I continue to suffer as a martyr. But like the parent who tells the unpopular child they're just jealous of you to salve the wounds of rejection I must accept that the reason is unimportant, only the continued lack of income.

When an unexpected kindness shows up in my Paypal account my gratitude is laced with guilt. Am I writing to manipulate and support my laziness or my lack of ambition? The thought is a crippling unknown that stifles my writing. Is hope a killer? What are my options? Will I be back on the street soon?

When my Massachusetts Miracle didn't work out and I was broke I actually Googled the trip home to D.C. by foot. Now I fight the temptation to plan my next move without reason. Fear and Vulnerability are my constant companions but without them the silence would lead to madness and no return. At least I'm writing and know that this day will be followed by the next. I can't know the next day or week or year but I am still here and that counts for something. Better to feel afraid and vulnerable than to be numb to it all. I'm alive and that will have to do for now as I continue to dream and scheme and apply for more jobs. Better to leave potential employers with regrets than to regret giving up.