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Even as a six-year-old child, Evelyn Lau already knew what she would be in life -- a writer. She would spend countless hours in her room writing short stories and poems trying to avoid the suffocating reality surrounding her. At the age of fourteen, forbidden by her strict parents to “waste” any more of her time writing, Evelyn did the only thing she felt she could do -- she ran away.
For two years, Lau lived on the streets of Vancouver. For a while she embraced her new life, seduced by the sense of freedom and independence from the pressures of school and family. But like so many others before her, Lau soon fell into a dangerous spiral of drug addiction and prostitution. During her two harrowing years on the street, Lau’s writing ambition never left her; almost obsessively, she kept a written record of her days on the street; this record is Runaway: Diary of a Street Kid.
A bestselling memoir, Runaway is a story of survival: physical, emotional and psychological. It is at times tragic, sometimes infuriating, but always honest and inspired; Runaway makes no apologies and offers no solutions. It is a vivid and frightening portrait of a young girl’s life on the street.
320 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1989
"There is so much that I still dare to want to change. Everywhere I turn there is somebody who is innocent, who is doing good and who is being crucified for it.
I see myself going nowhere, running constantly, wishing to hide in a different personality, behind a different mask. Moving, but in circles. Trying to run away from life and from its eyesores that only the truly brave can face and attempt to change. It will go on and on: somebody being battered by rain down on Skid Row, on any street in any city, and people walking by. You give up after a while or else you go crazy.
Some people do beautiful things, once or twice in their lives, and create something for somebody else—a freedom, a glimmer of hope. Each of us measures happiness differently. If all of us could just be brought down to the lowest rung of existence, wouldn't we understand better what happiness is about?
Another move. Barren walls. Going nowhere, leaving behind (now it seems, as it does each time) everything. The ashtray sitting lonely on the windowsill, smeared with ashes. The closet with one T-shirt hanging. Suitcases and backpacks waiting for morning.
I want to do something good in this world. I want a life for myself, a life not chosen at random and too easily disposed of, but a life that will create something concrete for people. It isn't enough just to have visions but nothing in my hands to give.
I don't know how to live reasonably. I don't know how to stop from being hurt at the most insignificant things, from being overresponsive to people, except by shutting and locking doors firmly, checking them twice to make sure no one can penetrate. How does one manage?
I want people to be good to each other, but I don't know how to begin changing anything because I myself can barely cope with other people and with being alive."