Welcome to No Fixed Address, a weekly series where I write candidly about what it means to be homeless—right now, in real life, not in some sanitized Hollywood version. I’m currently unhoused. Not “drifting.” Not “on a journey.” Just trying to survive in a world that looks away.
Each week, I’ll share personal accounts, hard truths, and moments that don’t make it into the movies. If you’re here to understand what homelessness actually looks like—not as a plot point, but as a life—then you’re in the right place.
This is not a cry for pity. It’s a record. A mirror. A small act of resistance.
There’s a kind of tired you don’t come back from.
It’s not the kind you fix with a nap or a strong cup of coffee. It’s not jet lag. It’s not overwork. It’s something deeper — a warping, a slippage. A depletion of self. Sleep becomes an idea, not a practice. A memory you can’t quite recreate. You get pieces of it: a head nod, a microdream, a blackout between train stops. But real sleep? The kind where you go somewhere and return? That’s a ghost story.
The body adjusts — poorly. You lose the edges of things first. The line between now and five minutes ago goes smudgy. Your eyes start seeing movement that isn’t there. You forget simple sequences, like brushing your teeth or zipping your bag. Then the thoughts change — not the big ones, not “What’s my name” or “Where am I,” but the connective tissue between ideas. Things start to… float.
I’ve cried while laughing and not noticed the difference. I’ve asked the same question twice in a row and not known it. I’ve sat on a bench staring at a coffee cup I wasn’t holding. It’s like my mind is trying to fold itself in half just to keep warm.
One night, about a week ago, I decided to sleep outdoors. The weather was relatively mild and I was layered up — a puffer jacket under a peacoat. I’d found one of those “Open to the Public” patios where the building had — miraculously — left their metal chairs and tables out overnight. (Usually, management hauls them inside to avoid people like me doing exactly what I was doing.)
I spotted a table against the wall, sat down, threaded my legs through my backpack straps like a seatbelt, and drifted off. How long was I out? No idea. But something woke me — a pressure, a wrongness. When I opened my eyes, there was a man sitting inches from my face, closer than a lover, closer than breath. Startled, I shouted for him to back off. In a voice smooth as a razor, he said:
“I only wanted to talk to you. Go back to sleep so I can finish the conversation.”
I cursed that man out so thoroughly the air itself blushed. Eventually, he left — not running, not raging, just walking away with the same unnerving calm. If I had stayed asleep, I genuinely believe I would’ve died that night.
It just goes to show, every night is a new gamble. Will the train keep running? Will someone try to rob me? Will I snore loud enough to get kicked out, or quiet enough to vanish? Will my legs give out from being crumpled too long? Will someone mistake me for someone dangerous, or worse — someone disposable?
Sleep, when you get it, feels like theft. Like you’ve stolen a moment from the world. And when the moment’s over, it demands payment.
To sort of prove my point, let me tell you about a man named Mike Black — a millionaire entrepreneur who once “went homeless” to try and rebuild his fortune from scratch. You may have heard of him. He paused his business, cut off his network, assumed a fake identity, and aimed to make $1 million in 12 months with nothing but grit and hustle. He documented the whole thing. Very inspiring.
Except… he never slept on the street.
He used a couch-surfing app to secure nightly shelter — and I’ve tried that app too, by the way. I’ll explain in another post why it didn’t work out for me (and while we’re on the subject, being homeless and owing a car isn’t the same, either). Mike also had a film crew. He also had a safety net, even if self-imposed. And while he cited his father’s health as the reason for ending the challenge early (which I respect), he failed to mention the mental health toll the experiment took on him as his story shifted.
Living without a fixed address isn’t some damned a startup challenge. It’s not a game, or a detox, or an experiment in bootstrapping.
It’s waking up to yourself and finding you’re thinner in spirit than the day before. That the thread holding you together has frayed a little more. That your body feels less like a home and more like a failed machine.
I miss dreaming. I miss waking up and knowing I had been somewhere.
Once, I got lucky — a miracle, really. I managed nearly four hours of sleep in the library. Either security gave me a break or they weren’t on duty that day. It felt like slipping into something sacred.
And I dreamed.
In the dream, I had a friend. Not just an acquaintance or a helper, but a real friend. Someone who knew me. Someone I laughed with. When I woke, I instantly remembered I was homeless — the weight of it landed like usual — but it didn’t crush me the same way. I had a strange warmth in my chest. I didn’t feel so alone.
Until I realized the friend lived in the dream.
And I was still here.
—Rhyan
MADD FICTIONAL 