The little store looked like a trendy place to be.  Everything was constructed from steel and concrete and there was a high-class feel to the place.  Two rusted ceiling fans spun overhead above the isle racks giving the whole store an antique style and flavor.  A girl was standing behind the register and it felt like she was the owner.  She looked young but was probably in her mid-30s.  There was a shrewd look in her eyes and her smile though charming, looked robotic and forced.  The skinny jeans she was wearing didn’t flatter her hips but it made her look very attractive.

As I walked around the shop looking at the myriad of objects, I was having a hard time placing exactly what kind of shop this was.  It sold everything from male and female fashions to posters and wall-art to varying figures and toys to miscellaneous gadgets and trinkets.  I brushed my fingers along some of the color splattered figurines and wondered who would buy these odd things.

It was then that I saw a man standing far off to the side, browsing through a magazine rack that I had not noticed before.  He was wearing dark, ripped jeans and a pair of crusty engineer boots.  He was shirtless and his dark, well muscled body was exposed.  Though his look was hard, his face was soft as was his features; his nose was petite as it lined the front of his face, his lips were tender and rosy like a young boy.   His cheek bones were fine and delicate and his face reminded me of a finely-chiseled Greek sculpture.  From his head erupted a red Mohawk and one can tell he wore it proudly.  Though he looked like he belonged there, the feeling of his presence was strange.  I gave no more thought to it and felt satisfied in letting him be.

I returned my attention to my surroundings and it had suddenly become nightfall.   I left the store and walked down a shop-lined street.  The exact location reminded me of Melrose in LA.  The sky was turning black and the lamp-lights weren’t coming on.  Somehow I found my way to an old school where I cracked open a window to a basement and climbed in.

I must’ve slept there that night as the next thing I remember is the sound of children giggling.  I climbed up on top of a table and peered out the little window I used as my entrance.  I saw elementary school children playing during what I assumed was their recess time.  They were all playing tether ball and I felt compelled to join them.  I quickly launched myself through the window and out of that basement.

I am sitting in a large room of monitors.  Dark, red light flooded the entire expanse of the room.  Quickly gazing around, I noticed 2 or 3 other people sitting at computer consoles obviously monitoring something important. I looked back to two gentlemen sitting in front of me and watched them looking into their respective monitors.  Everybody’s expression was emotionless and cold, and it seemed the only thing that made them recognizable human beings was the skin they were wearing.

I was standing, hunched over them, hands pressed firmly into the back of their seats for support.  The only thing I could see in the monitors were a black and white mess of fuzz and static but I nodded at them, patted their backs and looked away.  Putting my hands into my pocket, I began to slowly pace up and down the aisle.  From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a young girl wearing a black tank-top and dark-brown ripped jeans standing at the farthest computer console.  She was thin and firm and her black flowing hair cascaded down her shoulders.  Her face looked like a child’s but she obviously was not.  Her skin was a dark brown but her features looked oriental.  I was fascinated so I stared and the more I kept staring, the farther away she’d seemingly be.  Intrigued, I started to walk towards her.  About half way there, she looked up and smiled.  I smiled too and started to say, “Hello.”  There was anticipation on her face and she started to walk towards me but before any interaction could take place, I felt a hand on my shoulder and I heard a deep voice from behind me.

“Look sir.  That’s where you need to go.”

I looked behind me and nodded before following the man in the sunglasses and black-suit.  As I continued following the man, I quickly looked back for the dark-skinned beauty but she was gone.

I walked into a scene from something out of the 1970s, complete with brown-hue and film-grain.  The sun seemed harsh and it beat down upon me with its yellow rays and orange glow.  Shading my eyes, I looked around and was able to find shelter under a large awning.  With a sigh of relief, I looked around and came face to face with a cherry red 1969 Shelby Mustang.  A sales man baring a striking resemblance and demeanor to Vigo Mortenson saw my interest and started to approach me.  He was wearing a white shirt with brown stripes and a brown spotted tie hung from his collar.  Dark brown slacks creased their way around his legs and a pair of penny loafers completed his outfit.  It made his toothpick smile seem sleazy.
 
“She’s a beaut’ isn’t she,” he purred as he stroked the canvassed roof.

I stared back at myself through the reflection of the shiny red body mildly nodded in acknowledgement.

“How much,” I said in an uninterested tone.

Vigo continues with a snicker and in a southern drawl says, “Price won’t be an issue for you.”

I eye him suspiciously before saying “Let’s go for a test drive.”

“Don’t you want to hear more about her before you dive in?” he says in surprise.

“If I want it, I’m going to drive it and take it.  If I don’t want it, I’m going to drive it and leave it.  Either way, I have to drive it so let’s go.”

His lip curls into a mischievous smile and he coos, “Okay, but once you get in, I’m not sure you’ll want to get out.  You better decide now before it’s too late.”

I quickly brush his comment aside and open the door to get in.  Keys were already in the ignition and I make myself at home in the comfortable, white leather seats.  I wait for my passenger to climb in before I turn the ignition and as if an angry beast had just been awakened from deep slumber, the car roars and growls violently.  Vigo launched into delight and he can barely contain himself.  I slowly sit back and grin at the violent vibration of the vehicle and as sudden as the vibration began, the car started to relax and I can tell it wanted to be tamed.  I quickly step on the gas while still in neutral and the rumble of the engine lets me know that this she wants to be driven. 

“Careful,” I hear Vigo warn in his sly southern drawl.  “She’s a wild one.”

We’ve been driving for awhile now and I’ve gotten over the excitement and exhilaration of the drive.  We’re crossing a large suspension bridge akin to something like the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco and I’m reminded of the TV show, “The Wonder Years”.  They sky is a grainy light blue and the road ahead is a grainy brown-grey.  I suddenly feel nostalgic and speed up.  Vigo is sitting next to me laughing and howling like a cowboy on a cattle drive.

Soon enough the brown nostalgic haze is replaced by cold grey concrete.  Vigo is gone and I’m alone driving through a sleepy city, lost and without remembrance of how to get to my destination.  I never question where my destination is; I just that I know I need to get there.  I can hear the voice of a close friend telling me in my mind where to go and how I should get there and I follow her exact words.

It’s night time now and I’m driving through stop-light after stop-light.  The city has a quiet calm about it even amidst the crowded sidewalks and vibrant neon lighting.  I pull into a parking garage and everything is flooded in a dark orange.  I’m sleepy and tired and I decide to take a nap there.  Thoughts of where I am and where I need to be scrape the edges of my mind.  This place is unsafe but I’m tired and I need to rest a bit.

Its day time but it’s still dark.  The day is cloudy and it looks more like dusk.  I’m driving up a hill and the only recognizable thing I see is a high-rise made of grey brick and white concrete.  Curiosity grips me and I begin to wonder if this is my destination.  I quickly pull over and enter the front of the building.  Immediately I recognize this place as the store I was in earlier except this time everything is wrong.  Gone are the stylish shelves and the rusty overhanging ceiling fans.  Gone are the bizarre merchandise and the styling feeling of the store.  There is nobody here and everything looks dull and without color. 

I take this moment to look through the store’s inventory again and notice the only thing the shop is carrying is shirts.  Though the shirts were different colors, they all look grey and felt very bland.  I pick up one of the shirts to look at the logo and see a white, crudely drawn leaf shape encircled by a white crudely drawn circle.  Tossing it to the side I look up and notice the same shirtless, mohawked figure I saw earlier.  He’s standing next to the magazine rack still alone and still without care.  Sensing my presence, he looks up at me momentarily before going back to flipping through his a magazine.  There’s a door behind him and I feel like he’s eyeing me to go through.  I walk through the door and into darkness.

It feels like forever as I’m walking through the darkness but soon I see a glimmer of light.  I can’t judge the distance or the source of the light but I know that it is coming from in front of me.  The light continues to grow larger and brighter as I get closer to it and suddenly, without warning I am engulfed and blinded by it.

As my eyesight slowly compensates for the brightness, images of a dressing room full of unrecognizable faces filter into my mind.  Though I can’t quite see them, I can feel people around me and they are all very beautiful.  There is a mix of males and females but their faces are blank to me and I can’t quite understand what is making them attractive.  Sounds of typical, everyday chatter fill the room like vapor and emptiness permeates the atmosphere.  I walk around the edges of the room trying to figure out where I am and how I got here but I’m lost.  The bright light that lead me here is still shining in my face and I realize that this light is the reason why I can’t see the faces around me.

Soon I hear a female voice asking me to stay and I’m compelled to follow its command.  I don’t know the reason but I feel happy she asks me.  At some point I’m rushing to McDonalds and picking up a tray of Ice Coffees though coffee is something I have a great disdain for.  I think I’m bringing them back but I arrive at the store again and I’m alone and empty handed.  The store still feels cold and grey but I’m compelled to stay for a little while longer.  There’s even a feeling of worth being there.  I look at the shirts adorning the shelves again and notice something I hadn’t quite noticed before; everything is extremely well organized.  I look to my right where Mr. Mohawk was standing and where there was once a magazine rack now sits beauty care products, neatly organized by usage and type.  There are lipsticks, powders, facial cleansers and anti-wrinkle creams and they are all same brand.  The brand name is in a language I can’t read but the logo is a green leaf surrounded by a beige reef printed on beige and it is plastered over all the bottles and containers.

Hours pass by and I notice I’m pacing aimlessly back and forth in the store with no rhyme or reason.  I’ve lost my purpose and don’t know what I’m still doing there.  All I know is that it feels right to be there and I’m being rewarded somehow for staying.  I start to get the feeling that me being there lent some legitimacy and credibility to the place; that without my presence, the place would just be cold and desolate.  Although the thought would generally be ego inflating, all I can seem to feel was sympathy and sadness for the little place and it causes me to stay a little longer.  The bright over head lights start to blind me as my vision wavers and I wake up to find myself at the car lot where I first left with the Shelby Mustang.

I get out and Vigo is there, prattling on about how I’m making a good purchase and how excited I’ll be being the new owner of this vehicle.  I quickly wonder if I’m making a mistake and look back to the car only to see that I wasn’t driving a Shelby Mustang but instead an old red, Ford station wagon.  I ponder whether the mistake was mine or his and I look back to Vigo.

Vigo sees the shock on my face and quickly says, “Hey sometimes things change.  It’s natural.”

“Don’t you have to be truthful to your customers?” I ask.

“Of course, but only to a certain degree.  I can’t tell you how everything will turn out; I just show you how things are.”  He smiles and I can see his sparkling toothpick grin.

“I can’t trust you,” I say to him as I leave him behind.

“She’s not going to like this,” he warns before he disappears from my site.

It’s the 70’s again and I’m standing in the shade of a large awning.  A black man with an old style racer cap wearing a light blue colored suit and a green vest comes up to me and says, “Hey son, you looking for a car?”

I ponder slowly and finally reply, “How can I trust you?”

“You can’t,” he says abruptly. “You’re just going to have to figure it out as we go.”

I nod as if everything in the world made sense at that moment and follow him into his car shop.  He asks me what I want and starts to flip through picture after picture of beautiful looking cars.  I notice the price tag on them and become bewildered by their prices.  Though the expense concerns me, I can’t help be captivated by the beautiful exteriors and proceed to listen to his sales pitch.

It’s blue and it’s cascading across my face.  The sill of my window cages me like the bars of a cell.  Moonlight drapes me like my lover’s blanket.  I’m looking to the blackness and it’s a swirl of nothing.  I ache at the vastness and bathe in my insignificance.  I’m always pondering my fate and I’m always at odds with myself.  Always trapped in this mind and always searching for the key. My sanity rests inside and it is growing old.  

I sit and I’m still.  The carpet beneath me is all I can feel in the cool of my meager existence.  I can’t move and I don’t want to move.  I’m apathetic with no reason for being.  If I can just stand I know I can be better.  Why don’t I stand?  Why aren’t I better?

I sense the burdens of the world and I’m reluctant to engage it.  Failure is at every doorstop and my ineptitude is around every corner.  I see myself swimming in a molasses of stagnation and I feel I should do something about it. I do nothing and I’m okay with it.  

What’s become of me?  Where has the promise gone?   I had so much potential at one point.  I was so much more before.  I look to the past and the realization of a melting beauty drips across my shattered visage.  I resign myself to a safe, reclusive place so I can leave myself unchallenged. 

“Get away from there!” I’m screaming and I beg myself not to play.  But the red and green blocks always look enticing.

If winning meant not playing, then I would be the supreme champion.  Every day that passes is a day where life flitters away and this becomes my haven of success; unchallenged and hidden from realities of times I never want to recollect.  What is worthy if there is nothing I can stand to be worthy of?  Not searching means not knowing and not knowing is my ignorance’s bliss.

What is this thing in my head that allows me to sense the pain?  Is everybody this empathic?  No, or we would all have more sympathy.  God who created us in his image mandated the laws of this dimension and within it all is our Universe.  We study the Universe to discover God but in actuality we are just discovering ourselves.   Constant in every form throughout is the cycle of consuming and rebirth.  Everything is selfish because everything feeds from greed. 

Looking at us again, we don’t even dare to relate to the pains of our fellow man.  Sure we have people who want to do good but is the good they do truly from an understanding’s standpoint?  They do their fill throughout the day hoping that their gesture is enough to ascend through the pearly gates.  Then a self-gratifying pat on the back and they are off to their comfortable homes and cozy beds while the suffering lay in spasms of their own torment.

What then, now?  Of the ill begotten and eternally forgotten?  What can we do now?  Can we follow you back?  Can we share in your comfort and warmth?  Of course not, because we’ll never be one of you.  Because if you truly helped us, invited us in and consoled all our fears and worries away, you wouldn’t have anybody else to look down upon and feel superior to.

I spit at your helping hand and I spit at your good graces.  Your condescending nature is patronizing and I’m sick of it.

This life tires me and I’m constantly at odds with my own dementia.  My will is to survive but to be like them?  To smell the sweat of their needs and forced to interact with the banality of their being?  Why would anybody worth anything wish to coexist with the mundane?  What is this self-flagellating masochism that we constantly endure that makes us think we are better?  We aren’t better.  The truth of it all is we are no better than when we first formed in the muck or when we became forlorn and realized that together might be better than apart.

I’m grabbing for it again.  I can see the glimmer of light fade from my face.  Darkness envelopes me once more and I’m clawing.  Clawing and scratching my way out of the pit that is only too familiar.  Why am I here again?  I thought I was getting better.  Look at me!  Aren’t I better?  People perceive me differently.  I’m changed.  I dress differently.  I cut my hair.  I’m stronger and more gallant, charming and a killer smile.  I can kill with a look and twist with a word.  So why has the light vanished once again?  Why am I searching to find something I thought I already found?  What am I searching for?  Why am I in the pit?  Aptly named, the pit of despair.

I had a pretty good day today like I said earlier.  Nothing too dramatic or too difficult.  I did falter a bit with her today.  I saw her and was overcome by a need.  I wanted to reach out and I did.  What a mistake that was.  I shouldn’t have.

“It's all setup!  Don’t spoil it.  You've already put it together, there's no need for anything more.  Just be patient.  It will all come together.  Trust in it.  Don’t sabotage it.”

 I will not sabotage it.  I repeat that a thousand times instantly in my mind.

The hole inside me continues to grow.  I need to get up and go swimming.  I need to move but I’m stuck in my apathy.  The voices scream and it’s all I can do to funnel them through me and into this.  This has become my therapy. 

Maybe I shouldn’t read Xanga anymore.  Reading all those entries simply infuriates me.  How can people rejoice in their simplicity and mediocrity?  I feel sickened that so many don’t understand the first thing about living yet they prance around life prideful and arrogant.  They don’t know shit.  I don’t know shit but I can gladly admit it.  They on the other hand are pretentious and obnoxious in their meanderings and believe it all to be so.  I hate them and I can’t stand their ilk.

So you got raped?  I’ll show you a mind-fuck you’ll never forget.  Losing your “delicate flower” will be nothing compared to losing your mind after I’m done with you.  I spit on you and I spit on your defiled womb.  What baffles me is how you can still be such a shallow human being after such a harrowing ordeal.  I don’t hate you because of what happened to you.  Nobody should go through that and I actually, begrudgingly pity you.  It is that you are still so worthless and shallow in your over-dramatized retelling and it seems you didn’t learn anything from the experience.  That is why I hate you.  Most people die to have experiences like that and you flaunt it like a badge of honor?  You whore and I spit on you again.

Wow, my mind won’t shut-up.  I’m deafened in the silence that I need noise to drown out the throbbing numbness.  I'm sure everybody hears voices in their head.  How else do we know ourselves unless we are constantly conversing with ourselves?  I just need it to go away for a little while; it did go away for a little while.  It’s back again now and I’m still at a loss for why it is here.  Sometimes when I hear the trickle, I can just shut it off like a faucet but today, it’s coming like a torrent and I can’t hold back.  The dam of my consciousness has broken and the listless aching of incomprehensible thought is crashing into the walls of my skull.  I need to stop.  Make it stop.  I want to be better.  I can see how easy it is to blame somebody else for all this even though it would make no sense.  It’s like somebody else’s hate and loathing caused you to be like this and from there, a transference of energy began and now I’m simply a victim of a malevolent exchange.

Where’s your voice?  I want to hear your voice.  You make it better and I’m able to tolerate it all.  No, I don’t need you; I shouldn’t need you.  I promised to become the pillar.  That I will do.  It’s 7:12 pm and I know what I need to do.  I need to stop wallowing in the darkness and stand up.  There is still light outside and I must use it.  It will bring me back from this pit and I shall stop feeling the ache in my chest once again.