Person 1: Pardon me. I think I'm lost.
Person 2: No you're not, I just found you.

~ ~ ~

Destination Boulevard
Part One - Can You Get There from Here?

He stands alone. As the shuffle of the morning crowd hurries past. He stands staring. Eyes fixed on a drawing taped to a storefront window. He stands motionless. Paralyzed. His mind swims in a flurry of images. Are they memories, or just an imagination running wild? He stands unnoticed. People rush by and through him. It is a state of being he has become accustomed to. Layers of self peeling away day after day, until his disappearance was complete. He stands in a world he no longer inhabits. Only his likeness remains.

Does anybody remember him? He has spent many sleepless nights wondering. Isn't somebody worried that he hasn't come home? Aren't there any agents of the law commissioned with discovering his whereabouts? With the passing months of silence, where are the friends who might seek him out? Nothing. Only absence. Walking the shadow regions of unconsciousness. Now coming face to face with the one person left he could believe in. What does it mean?

Couldn't leave well-enough alone. Could you? Or is that too simple? Perhaps some other sinister force, more diabolical in its intentions than 'well-enough' could ever aspire to be, decided it couldn't leave you alone. In your current subterranean state, it's not uncommon to cross the path of an invisible malcontent or two -- rushing along surly paths with a momentum you'd be wise not to disrupt. But that's what happens when you go shuffling around town with your head down.

The key question is how this unwelcome sight is going to affect his day. One doesn't simply walk away from a moment like this without trepidation. And trepidation has a way of seriously inhibiting the calm transference of being from one minute to the next. Time begins to shut down. Thoughts become trapped. Simple activities like walking home or opening a door become monumental feats of heroic endeavor.

Trouble brews...

The morning started like any other. He arrived at the city park before sunrise. It has become a routine. A calling. Something to fill the time. A ritual of belief. A random collection of tasks he senses is fundamental to the well-being and preservation of survival. If not his, then of something greater. These are not minor realizations. They belong to the core of everything. And they are in serious danger of fading away without a trace.

. . .

A gentle fog mingles about the hedge as he crosses the threshold of the park's east entrance. The clock tower strikes the hour and he is filled with a deep sense of comfort. Some sounds become almost holy in a world of neglect and destruction. The hum of a street lamp. The gentle coo from a newborn baby. A train whistle. Waves meeting a shoreline. Wind through a forest. The rustle of leaves... dancing at his feet. He walks by swings that sway with ghostly occupants. He views a teeter-totter balance in a state of suspension, leaning one way and then the other, creaking slightly with each rise and fall. He continues to walk toward the center of the park. Emptiness surrounds him. It is the time of nothing, the middle hours between the frenzied activity of the night and the clean-up crew's first shift. The window of preservation. And with meticulous attention to procedure he goes about his work.

~ ~ ~

Read Part Two

Questions? Comments?
Send them to

Copyright 2001-2008