I love looking into that light, seeing myself, all seventeen years of life, all 68 seasons of death and revival, wasted. Each year pushing forward faster than the last, each year becoming more and more vapid. Until the last short minute. And when I see the light, I think of all the poor little people out there who keep on existing without any idea of what it feels like, what that thrilling feeling of knowing you are alive feels like, knowing you exist even when the city is quiet, and the birds aren’t chirping, and the fog is hiding the trees.


We’re walking--stumbling--down the empty side streets of the city. It is a dark, cool night and the weak light of the streetlamps paint the soft edges of our shadows on the pavement. I watch carefully as my every move is mirrored by some mystery man beneath me. If only I could reach down and pick him up, ask him a few questions. Maybe he has the answers; he could tell me who I am, a few of my regrets, a few of my goals.

I’m always looking for the answers but I think that maybe I’m looking in all the wrong places. Maybe it is simpler; maybe they are all locked up in that black pool beneath me.


“What would you ask your shadow if he knew you better than you knew yourself?” I ask Tim.

I could tell I had just interrupted some dumb thought of Tim’s, because Tim doesn’t know much (much about what is important at least). Inside his head is a river, his thoughts always just floating atop it; they’re bobbing up and down, flowing all the way across the river, but they have never once taken a dive to the bottom.

He slowly turns toward me, staring at me with his big, wild eyes, his worn out face, pondering an answer to the question.


“I don’t know. I would ask it why I’m always doing this stupid s*** with an insane person like you.” He answers while taking another puff of his cigarette and looking towards the sky.


“I’m not insane and this isn’t stupid s***, Tim. You always used to say you enjoyed it.”


“Yeah, well, I think it’s stupid now. It’s all a bunch of bull man, all this aimless walking thinking we’re going to randomly have this crazy epiphany that’ll give us some new perspective on life. Hate to break it to ya, it ain’t happening. Life is plain, old, simple life and that isn’t going to change no matter how many drunken miles we walk.”


“Fine. We’ll go sit down for a bit then.” I don’t try to convince him.


We walk a few more blocks then sit.



Now here we are, in the dark alleyway with a bunch of drunken old souls who are speaking nonsense to the brick walls surrounding us. The most intriguing part of this is when the walls begin to respond to these crazy minds. But the noise, the loudness of the walls speaking back. The dark, dark noise speaking back. It is all too much for Tim and I. It is rattling our brains, seeping into our souls, burning the life left inside us to ashes.

It reminds me of when I was a child living with my poor old mother, in our poor old dilapidated house and the big train would pass right by screeching its wheels against the tracks, shaking the dishes in the pantry, and I would hide under my mother’s apron, close my eyes, cover my ears, and try to escape the loudness. Then once there was silence again I would get right back to my chores. And that was how life went everyday; a few moments of fear before I could return to the ritualness.

I often think about just walking into the darkness away from it all, leaving everything behind. I’d walk all the way down the highway, watching each and every headlight quickly pass me in a second then be gone forever, and I’d keep walking until I ended up somewhere I’d never seen before. Because I think that walking is the only way out, the only way to escape time from passing in this pitiful, wretched, good-for-nothing life.

Tim is dozing off and I become bored so I begin talking with this old man in the alley whose name is Alan. His clothing is tattered and his beard untamed. He is a cheerful man. We are talking about his life; He tells me he was in the war, says he nearly got his ear shot off once. He tells me about his seven wives, one on each continent. He tells me about the one time he skydived even though he was afraid of heights. We talk for an hour and I wish I could jump right into his skin, be reborn into a different time, live his life all over again for him.


“How did you lead such an exciting life?” I am curious.



I smell the cheap liquor rolling off his tongue as he slurs to me, “You’re too young. You have not yet seen it.”



“Seen what?” I wait for a reply.


And when no reply comes, I scream it, “SEEN WHAT?”


After a few seconds of silence, the old bag passes out. Whatever. The guy is just insane, he lived in a different life. He doesn’t know a single thing about being lost, lost within yourself.

But then I can’t stop thinking about it. I am shaken up; I think that could have been the answer. I look over at Tim sitting there, eyes closed, head back against the bricks, slowly taking a puff on the remains of his cigarette. He doesn’t give a s***. Tim never gives a s***. He doesn’t think like I do, he doesn’t understand.

And now I find myself pacing in the alleyway.

And I start laughing, laughing like crazy, because I think of how tired I am, tired of the same old faces, the same old narrow streets, the same old music being played in the coffee shop. Every single day. I think about how I want to get out. I want to live, to feel something, because I’ve spent all my time, my entire life, forced into studying these books, these books which have not taught me a thing, and every minute I spent reading these books is a minute that I could really feel something, something that could make my heart beat a little faster, for just that short minute.

Regret engulfs me now. I remember hiding from the noise as a child. I hid from it everyday for sixteen years and now I long for it, I long to feel that exhilarating moment again. What my fears were then are now what I wish to embrace.

I stand up and look at Tim’s scratched up, pale face. His hair's a disheveled mess. And I think, “Why not try a little harder Tim? You could make such a good life for yourself.” And just when I am about to wake him up to lecture him, I stop.

I hear the noise finally calling to me again. My body becomes weak as my chest lightens from relief. Yet, I still manage to find the strength to punch Tim in the face for being such an ignorant fool. And then I run.

And I run, and run, and don’t look back at all. Tim’s squeals are just drowned out by that familiar, now beautiful noise. I pass every headlight on the highway like I had always imagined and I suddenly feel all my thoughts becoming reality; I feel freedom. What a strange thing it is how easy it can be to leave it all behind.

When I finally arrive at the place behind that poor old dilapidated house, where my poor old mother is asleep, the noise is more real than ever. I clench my fists, step onto the tracks and stare into the distance at the faint light before me. Throwing my arms into the air, I let out a giant scream; the kind of scream that lets the world know you’re here, that you really are alive. I keep screaming and the noise keeps getting louder, and the light on the front of the train keeps getting closer. And I think of Alan and know now what I had not yet seen. And it’s how I had always planned it to be; my heart beats a little faster for the entire minute I give myself up to that light. Until I feel it. The hard second of impact followed by a great moment of metallic explosion. I finally feel the exhilaration, the absolute bliss.