[Less] Motion

Motionless

Be forever humbled by the notion of redemption for yourself, by yourself. Only then can you fulfill the promise of tomorrow.

I stood motionless as death had become my life. The grim reaper’s gaze gave my mortality a grave fright. Fearing for my own existence, I had simply stopped in mid-motion. Fear’s grip held me frozen in time, mere moments before reaching my favorite chair’s safety. Why must I do this now? I have to get ready. Fine! My mind began churning out thoughts of any logical semblance of truth for the meaning of my statuesque purgatory of a body. I knew this bodily revolt wasn’t simply because he had died. No, this paralyzing parasite had been lying dormant, waiting until the time it could overpower my being while using my emotional pain as its strength. Yes, I had been lifeless for many years before he collapsed; way before my mother took her life; way before I had become a pillar of my town. How could I have never known I had been so lifeless? I was the only one who could have seen how far gone I was. How long have I been dead? It had to have been directly after college, when I was licking the wounds of my first soiree with soured success. It was a time where my truths were defined by my bank account. My life had become a savings account, which had, most recently, become eternally empty. Failure. My impoverished, adolescent, failings forced me back into the faithful arms of my concerned parents, and also into the watchful eyes our judgmental ‘new testament’ neighbors. I would have been the perfect posterchild for the harmful effects of dancing with chaos, getting drunk and going home with its unfortunate cousin named Rompió. I should have never danced at all. But I did, instead of what I had been told to do. You were probably told the same thing. For success one must, ‘abide by societal obligations in the maintenance, and pursuit, of order’.

I thought I had left this place, these people and my home, only to return in a blaze of glory. But no. Back then felt like I was constantly surrounded by family who would just observe me, and I would return the favor. Sadly, all I could see were mere strangers in place of my parents. This observation was validated every time I caught a glimpse deep into their eyes. In the depths of their eyes, their soul’s truth, I felt what can best be descried as a mournful shaking of their heads. It’s that less than desired motion of heartbroken shame only a parent can have for a child. Oh how they looked upon me with shaking head shame. At the time I was so embarrassed, because I had let myself down. I was ashamed because I had become the reincarnation of the prodigal son. My future disgraced. I would cry alone at night thinking how I had no job, no prospects, no dignity. This shamed state greatly increased my sense of a failed existence. Those nights, thinking about the burden of my assumed failed existence, only amplified the sway my soul darkening baggage held over me. Soon, my burdening baggage became my beings only true friend. I even began to believe they were actually mine, and, as horrible as they were, at least they were mine.

That was the start of a tumultuous friendship as I carried its weight of self-righteous indignation, guilt, alcoholism, and depression as my own. It became all I knew and soon I began to wear them like there were clothes. I had begun defining myself by them. They shaped my thoughts, which invited my chaotic, twenty-something, mind to depression’s dinner party. It was a pity party, of sorts, and I seemed to be the only person that showed up. Feeling isolated and misunderstood, all I could do was think of revenged revolution back then. I was so self-righteous, and truly believed society was to blame for letting me fail. I had learned how to succeed in the system we call society. But it was as if during my college freshman year, society decided to change course, and neglected to tell my generation of our impending crash onto the shores of rejection. Oh, how the mighty fall.

I never realized, until recently the reason I had let chaos take over my life. The reason I decided to hate, instead of repair, was because I had never once looked inward to find the person I wanted to be. I had been an ‘American Dream’ drone, setting sail towards my perfectly planned, linear, life, aboard society’s ship for the first eighteen years of my life. During those eighteen years I was never objectively exposed to the dark side of life. So, I was easily swayed to walk on the dark side of life, because I didn’t have the knowledge to know better than to see only beauty of existential chaos. And oh, was there beauty on the dark side of chaos. It was there, when I fell asleep after making love to anarchy, that I learned how to feel in dreams. And these dreams soon consumed my mind. The things I could see shifted my soul, and made me the consummate dreamer, in the literal and figurative sense. But one thing I am starting to see now, standing stuck in stillness, is that although my dreams are more beautiful than anything observed in natured, I want to start making them more of a reality. The reality that I see is motivated by social redemption. This seeking no longer makes me happy. Just because you can see, or recall, a dream doesn’t mean it’s your reality. Looking at it now, I guess I seek social redemption, and parental pride, because I was educated to only paint in my parent’s desired colors. I did this for so long I forgot there was the option of choosing another paint that I liked.

My present motionlessness resides somewhere deep in my gut. It feels of success with something to prove. I am aware what memory that feeling is attached to. It was the day my mother told me I was a miracle, as if it were my coronation. I did always like the story though. I was called God’s miracle baby, because my mother had been told for nine years she would never have a child. At 7:11 pm, after a Puerto Rican nurse, mounted and pushed me out of my mother’s womb, I was born into silence. Purposely silent as my father requested the Lord’s Prayer to be the first sounds I would ever hear. So, hearing my mother’s prophetic stories of my destined existence, I had always known I was ordained for greatness. The rest of that story for a later time. I would like to move again.

So having that gut feeling of ordained greatness, and chaos’s knowledge, I have been blessed, some would say cursed, with the most vividly, sense filled, dreams one could ever imagine. I’ve begun to only exist in my mind’s imagined world. My dreams have become my escape from the trap of a tedious existence. One I hated, but saw as my only option to find a purposed life. My anointed, ‘American Dream’, existence was the only purposed life option because all I wanted was simply to make my parents proud of their divine miracle. I wish I could show all my shame enforcers my mind’s dreaming that made me amazing observer and thinker. Yes, I regret how those dreams allowed me to imagine and then pursue vain, carnal, desires. Desires I had been told to be better than. But, at the time, they looked so freeing, so inconsequential, and so fun!

But no more fun. I am still motionless, still a statue of sadness. I can’t bare this sickness anymore. I am going to leave the present, and wander off into my dreamed memories for a little bit. Maybe by observing the memories of my youth’s darkest hour will help me realize why I’m in this solemn state. Dreams and imagination are our escapes from the present. We can go into unknown worlds, the past, the future, and the magical. There in your mind’s consciousness we can become anyone we want to be. I just don’t know who I’ll become if I dig into my darkness, because I have purposely never tried to remember my feelings. I have suppressed most emotions from those days, but I need to drudge them up. I need to connect with my former, failed, self, and realize what we did wrong.

So, I’m going to let my memories take me back to the days of my drunken attendance at depression’s dinner party. Just thinking about all those purposely forgotten emotions has flooded my mind with enough memories to relive the day it all changed, the day my mother could no longer take the immorality of chaos that limited her love by blinding her of its potential good. I had been the one who found her, just floating there. So serene and at peace, as the tub overflowed with the hushed red of blood mingled with water. Why she chose that day? I will never know.

What was a typical day during my insecure, failure ridden, twenties? Let’s go with an early afternoon on a Tuesday. If I recall correctly, I would probably only be waking up if it was the early afternoon and most likely a little shaken up by the same specific dream I had during those days. It was one of those dreams I would wake up remembering almost every other day. Today I don’t have the faintest idea what it means. But, it is stunning, and just seeing it now puts me back into my childhood bed. Like that morning, the dream was a blazing blue flame atop a solid, indeterminately frozen ice cube. I never saw beyond that last image of that flame’s, fervent, flicker before my mind, and body, were ripped into reality by the gong of church bells. The bells were the only setting on my cheap ‘Made in China’ alarm clock. I recall it was the only setting which could remotely infiltrate my impenetrable sleeping patterns. I so resented the holy chimes. They perpetually startled me, which would cyclically culminate into my dopey, half asleep question of ‘Is it Sund… Church again?’ Thank the Lord no. No, it was not church again.

As I would thank God, for not having to see him today, I seem to remember another image which always overtook the glowing orb of divinity I spoke to. It was dark at first. Like my countless emotions only nightmares could make me feel. But it was worse, because it was like all those emotions manifested into one, now recallable, image which stood before me. The image's shoulders would be moving, up and down, with the thrust of laughter. The image was this ambiguous human whose complexion you awed and coveted simultaneously. Sometimes they would be dressed as a factory worker. From what they wore, the factory must have been an assembly line of plastic, unionized, crap like my alarm clock. They were wearing a sterile, matching, blue hued jumper, paired with a hairnet, and latex gloves. One gloved covered hand, was out of sight. The other seemed to point right at my soul. The worker was always chuckling at me, and with their mouth sprung open, spraying ridicule, and shame. Staring me down, they seemed hysterically proud of themselves. “You are such an asshole! You are just a worker who works with shitty plastic anyway!” I would mutter in a distant dream-thought of the ‘American Dream’, thus repelling the ridiculer’s reach for my pride as their present prize.

Amazing! With my eyes closed, I can recall all my memories of these moments; the sounds, smells, body aches, depression, and lost soul. These thoughts are so vivid I am actually seeing my memories as my present reality. I am a teenager again.

The worker’s taunts always went on for a while. That prideful, plastic, purveyor, would always fade and then return at the next push of the snooze button. They would keep on pointing in laughter me. I can feel how warm my bed is, and how my head is swimming with a hangover. I would typically cover my face with my pillow, thus blocking the edging sun. Also, I would typically start to wonder why I had even set my alarm at all. At the time, I was jobless, and life lacked purpose. Oh, I can remember burying my head into my red, cotton, uncleaned bed sheet. I saw why I had fallen from such potential. But it wasn't all your fault. After a hazy, half-baked, four-year stint at ‘Podunk State University’, the only opportunity offered to me, and my b.s. degree, was a domestic caretaker position at a quaint residential, small town, two story family home. Nineteen Eighty-Six Eden Avenue…or my childhood home, as I had lovingly known it. So, yes, I was living back home with my pastor father, and my puritanical mother.

So there, I would lay in my youth’s single bed, surrounded by reminders of all my ‘lost’ potential. High School ‘Most Improved Player’ on the junior varsity tennis team, a wooden framed picture of the undefeated debate team, when I was its president two years in a row. Wow, how simple, and safe High School was even though we were plagued with teenageism. Those were fun times. But at this post college time, I saw everything as the bane of my existence. One time I remember, I saw, resting next to me was my crinkled college acceptance letter. I had meant to shred it already. But it sent me into a manic, acquired through alcohol, introspective depression. Channeling the rage to hold back my swelling tears, I stared at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers, I had stuck up on my ceiling after my 9th birthday, and had always made for good dreams creation. There were many nights I fell asleep just staring at those stars, frozen in a timeless, plastic, purgatory. But, that night, for what I still believe to be chaos’s craftiness, three stars lost their grasp, and flittered down. It was as if Orion decided to not wear his belt anymore, and casting it aside, it fell to the ground where I laid. Their falls timing, and master symbolism, felt like I was personally scraping at the bottom. It was if they had always represented my dreams of the future, and a slight sliver of sight into my existence’s purpose. I hope all of my dreams aren’t as forever lost as those stars. Now, all I have is a dirt outline was left as a reminder of its lost glow.

Let’s write this memory with less emotion, and looking more for my motionless solution. Just like the day I am recounting, most likely, my mother would soon have heard my soured stomach growl for sustenance. I would start to smell the scent of intoxicating free mom made breakfast with two slices of bacon. I was always too groggy to move even when I was starving. But, first I typically had to get rid of the stench of the, for example, seven eighths of southern comfort I probably had consumed the night before, and most likely, alone. For a while the booze made up my blood stream, and it was always burning my nostrils like a fire-breathing dragon. Mouthwash, bird bath, spritz, and I would be ready. That sans-sobriety smell would have been embarrassing if mother was in one of her righteous moods. She was a stern lady, complete with the conviction of biblical morality, and the Sinner or Saint absolute outlook. I mean the nicest memory I have of her, before this memory, was my mother delighting in me about all the great things I would do. I can see her manic face twinge with a façade of a supposed wise, and experienced elder. That face was the last one I would see of her before she slipped into the darkness of depression’s death. Her pleasant words of encouragement had been drilled into my head with such certainty, I could have sworn, Chairman Mao had less certain convictions for his little red book. As her truly caring, but mentally misguided, eyes would wander past me, “You are unique, talented, and an untapped genius. You can do whatever you desire.” It was as if she was talking to a mirror. I find most parenting is just that, a mirror of lessons. She would go on with the same robotic emphasis of, ‘Go to college, and your options are endless.’ While my father was at the church, my mother would tell me of this prophetic, profiteering, prospect. It was a time filled with the freedom of a life to be made. She amorously spoke of making my first step towards adulthood. Founded on my mother's speculative evidence it was inevitable…. I would get a job straight out of college. Then what followed, was the “subsequent steps every middle class American should follow,” lest they be outcast as a traitor of the ‘American Dream’. This rehash of steps typically would take place when she had trapped my time with her powers over my hunger, allowance, or vehicle.

Step 1) Get a Degree.

Step 2) Get Married.

Step 3) a) Buy a house,

b) preferably with three bedrooms, and 2.5 baths, and a backyard for the inevitable visiting, more successful, college friends.

c) Have a child which would be born 1.5 years into the marriage.

Step 4) a) Get a grown up flashy car.

b) When baby arrives, trade flashy car in for a safe, soccer mom, gray minivan with a mini fridge filled with juice boxes, and flip down screens to distract the children with mindless, bright moving, images. This would consequently shut them up so you can continue to ignore their development, because you are too busy planning for their next game, and simultaneously a huge project at work.

Step 5) Get a promotion, save for retirement, and braces, for the kids crooked teeth, followed by college for [Insert Your Idealistic Child’s NAME here. Ex: Your name].

Step 6) Repeat steps 1-5 for all preceding generations.

Except there is one logic error in this ‘American Dream’, oh wise prophetic matriarch, college had put me in debt. Mother had neglected to inform me of its occurrence. Sometimes, I still get angry at her for leaving us, and resent her moral absolutes. Before I knew about the impending debt, I went to college with a naïve nerdy, self-righteous, optimism. I had set off towards the bright bridge of breathtaking future glory, and purposed purpose. What followed, however, was the juxtaposition of the supposed bright, inevitable outcome. That was my first experience with chaos, true unadulterated chaos. No longer a simple, philosophical concept I countered in Debate Team. It was as if I had been trained like a dog to adhere to the lines of order. I started to resent the system, which kept me blind to nature’s truest state, being chaos. Was I ready to handle it, or had it come to find me, and take me home? This is where chaos took me. Like many of other fallen, academic brethren, my Step 1 didn’t go well. It amounted to pretty much a bunch of diversely themed binge fests, which fueled my carnally natural intent to act a fool, and make ‘bad’ life decisions. But I had to go numb from the pain inflicted on my mind at the time. All the professors preached, regurgitated, cob webbed covered ideas. Soon, time flew from boredom to a night with a vengeful lover breaking my door down to beat me senseless. I refused to solicit police protection, as there was far too many incriminating paraphernalia. So, I instead called my parents to come, and take me home. I had graduated by that point, but was all this pain, worth it for a flimsy piece of antiqued parchment inscribed with Latin lettering “[Insert name] graduates magna cum laude”, but should have read ‘Oops, the economy collapsed. You are totally screwed, and this authenticated degree by the smartest people in the state means shit now’.

Before the petrifying humiliation of the parent pick up, I remember I actually had started my job search. However, it quickly ended as fast as it started when my responses would only have consisted of the repetitive droll of, ‘We aren’t hiring, you don’t have any experience; which, by the way, how can anyone get without that job in that field to get the experience needed? Anyway, that was said, as well as, it’s equally tragic twin, ‘Sorry, but keep your head up.’ So after months of living at my friend’s place, on a fraternity stained, maybe, orange couch, which, by the way, was aptly located next to a crack dealing den, I realized something was broken. Was it my soul punishing me for tasting chaos? Was I holding onto something deep in my subconscious; the prison of chaos, or was it the prison of order? I remember spending my last few dollars, on a pack of smokes, probably, and it dawning on me that there was no other choice but to move back home to the superficiality of the small town living. Then I resigned myself to accepting I had failed Step 1 of the supposed ‘fail proof formula’ for ‘American Dream’ success. Well, these multiple macabre memories certainly deflated my love for life, and diminished quantification of my purposed life journey. Okay, that was getting too real. I guess I have a lot of emotions I forgot I buried. Keep digging.

Since I’m emotionally here, I’m going to keep digging. My failings weren’t my only struggle. It had happened, my mother hadn’t helped, but it was what I did with that failure which shames my soul to this day. That memory starts the night before the dramatic hangover from the second to last bottle. Second to last bottle, because the last bottle would be my first taste of mortality. The taste was laced with a hint of rage, and a big shot of cheap, pancreatitis inducing, vodka. Looking back, I realize it was inevitable because I no longer believed in myself. I was drinking almost a whole bottle every day. Whether in my morning tea, workout Gatorade, or in any juice pretty much before, and during all social functions. I remember the pancreatitis burned my left side with the pain of death, which pricked like bolts of lightning on my very physical existence. That night, as if miraculously so, the church chimes, and nemesis, went off at 12:34 am. I remember the time, because, just as the pain started with the force of fearful fury, it was followed by a separate metal, clicking snap. As time stopped the monochrome plastic face of the clock, and the worker, seemed to exhale dust as the last chime dwindled into darkness. It was as if time, and my dreams, descended into the darkness with me, as a friend. Before I collapsed from the teeth clenching agony, I recollect thinking, ‘They weren’t laughing at me! They were encouraging me.’

Next memory I can see is the hospital.

What followed was my system being flushed, hydration tubes being shoved into my arm, and these deranged dreamlike shakes driven by detox. I was in, and out, of consciousness so frequently I don't remember much of those hospital days. Except for the even further humbling experience of relieving my bowels only a few moments prior to the arrival of my father’s praying pastor pals, and their meaningful words shrouded by the stench of soiled soul. Even though they pretended to not keep holding their breath, or covering their noses, I recall feeling I had to show that I saw them as concerned. What I saw however was their eye’s wrath. It judged my life with its superior cutting of those beady eyes. They were the on-duty, morality enforcing, officers.

Okay, now I am getting my memories closer to my present predicament. Years later, which were some of the most profound years. They were willed with a spiritual awakening, and a genuine friendship with my father. That reminds me of my father who, by showing humor instead of constant concern as most humans do, would tell the many dark tales of my detox. For example, there was a story which stemmed from me asking him where my old alarm clock, nemesis, ended up. “Your mother gave it to goodwill per your request.” My father would always snort with the laughter of knowing something the other person doesn't remember during these stories. He would continue to tell me these stories, with happiness in knowing those dark days were dead. “Your mother had conveyed to me that evidently you were feverishly having a legitimate conversation in a foreign language. She said it sounded ancient, like Latin, Greek heck, she even said Aramaic. While she was trying to jot down any words she could make out you paused like you were listening, or waiting for a response.” My father had always found my mother's overthinking, of all situations, comical, and this memory is no exception. With a deep hearted laugh, he would continue narrating on how my mother then saw me groggily turn on consciousness, and how I sat up, as if a zombie, then proceeded to turn my head slowly, like I was possessed, and looked my mother directly in the eyes, and sharply requested she promptly remove the now infamous clock. My father shouldn’t have laughed at my mother making the possession connection of my foreign dreamed conversation, and the hallucinating demand, because she was right. The factory clock had death stamped me at 12:34. Well, the clock was wrong. I had lived, and at the time, it had to disappear; go, and taunt another American failure, I would mumble. I had just realized how I had outwitted the cheap plastic’s attempt of enforcing death’s orders on my young subconscious. It was like realizing that the fun, chaos, and games were now over; I had used my get out of jail free card. I was the pathetic prodigal son. My mother was destroyed by her own demons. He was the only one that deserved to stay. He never cared for order or chaos, he just was. I could never find a balance between the two. Maybe because they are not meant to coexist. But, knowing I had failed at maintaining order on my own, and having been sucked into the alluring rays of chaos I knew I was weak like her. I was not, and would never be as strong as him. I needed him to set me straight. I abandoned chaos. I now had to return to the order of pleasantries, small town living, and knowing my little rendezvous with chaos was now going to be a faint memory. I did it!

I never got to say goodbye to her, or to him. They were taken from me. I detest a world that takes people away without the slightest care in the world. My mother was sick. I have a better understanding of that now, and the guilt has faded. She was so concerned with perfect image, absolute morality, and worrying for the future, that she let the falsity of reality become her world. You can’t live in a world that isn’t real, and think you can survive it without going a little insane.

Opening my eyes, and seeing my hollow wooden apartment, I started to come back from the depths of my emotional thoughts. Thoughts plagued with the spectrum of basic human guttural, instinctual responses. It served me right to seek moments of regret, instability, and reminders of why I would shame my parents if they saw me now. Here I was, having cleaned up my act to now be considered a success, abiding by the small town order, and its moral society’s hierarchy. It simply didn’t feel right even though it was all seemingly perfect. At least it would have been perfect to my mother, who only saw the physical façades of people. But I knew my father, who could see people’s souls, would see right through me. He would shake his head. No, not, because he was ashamed, because he would be sad for me. I couldn’t seem to shift my body from the paralysis dream state of my thoughts, and memories of my chaotic childhood. My feet were stuck, and all I could feel was the soothing metallic of the copper urn in my left hand.

Denial of Less Motion

I stood motionless, gazing up the safety of my favorite chair, holding his copper urn. It was such a misrepresentation of him, or anyone. Those smoothed, mass manufactured, metallic, interior fortification, would be his final earthly residence. My body had taken on a rigidness, and my mind seemed resigned to accepting, what felt like, my descent into the quicksand of reflection. The sinking sand took form on the fading, wooden planked, floor under my feet. I couldn’t seem to regain real world consciousness. Except for the lingering smell of dust which layered the antique, leather bound, books decorating the black stand to my right. My emotional state was bookended by death, and antiquity. The only question which flashed, like a green neon, martini glass with a green olive imaged, bar sign in my mind was, ‘Who am I?’. It had never mattered before today. Before I said goodbye to the only man I’d ever loved. Before I saw how lonely, misunderstood, and lost I was. Before I realized I had become so unhappy with the things foretold to lead to fulfillment in my returned pursuit of the prepackaged order of the ‘American Dream’. Sure, I was now proudly far away from my brooding, brilliant, and bewildered partying twenties, I still found myself even worse off. It was as if I, all my future dreams, aspirations, and purpose, perished the moment my navigating stability died. I was now a shallowed shell of a human being. A shell, which I maintained with my magical ability to change subjects away from myself, temporarily blinding people from seeing my ever cracking conscious. The cracks have taken over my poorly built shield to protect my, newly colonized, order routine. I was just as devoid of center, and purposeful purpose, as I had been all along. Nothing had changed. Just how, and what I did changed. What was I to do now? I had spent my almost thirty years focused on a career I thought, or maybe I told myself, I wanted. I even had tried to rekindle a relationship with God, which started out as a few brief, and/or desperation prayers. Eventually, I could feel something in there again. I don’t know what I feel inside, but it's certainly alive. It’s the only thing that is alive, now my shielding shell of safety, and order, has cracked to extinction. I have ceased giving a crap. Like how I always started my day defining my success by the approval of others. Some of them had no idea, but I wanted to rise to great heights. To do that, I truly believed I could only do it through their approval. I knew better though, even before this motionless madness.

My father, being the small town pastor that he was, raised our family’s prominence, more specifically, my prominence, as the heir apparent, to celebrity status. With our every move being observed, mimicked, or mocked, my father had always taught me that people know you are good just by looking at you. I thought he meant the facade of perfection my mother indoctrinated me to pursue. However, after I landed my first journalism job I realized my father hadn’t been talking about physicality in the slightest. What world did I live in? I actually believed my substance was awarded the highest score depending on total lack of dishonorable demerits, coupled with a picture perfect pose. I always knew he was talking about God, and being faithful. But I hadn’t pulled myself out of the vortex of gossiping, God-fearers, and passive-aggressive threats from the fervent, gorgeous gray, front pew sitting, church absolutist grandmothers. You know the ones.

In fact, I remember as a child sitting in the same, beige upholstered, front pew, nestled next to those grandmothers. They were always coughing, or page turning loudly, in an attempt to mask their unraveling of candied caramels, which cluttered the bottom of their purses. They always claimed it was for their scratchy throats, which was believable, as it had to have been exacerbated by the one hour, thirty-two verses of a hymnal, which was like all the others, but with an F sharp instead of a C. Why am I so angry at God in my thoughts right now? I need to find the silver lining in this memory. Oh yes, my father. Oh, how alive he became behind the pulpit. He spoke with the conviction of martyred philosophers still filled with an eternal joy. My father had preached a sermon on the promise of life that day in memory. It was so hot the hymnal pages in my hand, humbly, withered with humidity. Even the devoutly modest organist hiked her blue polka dotted, shoulder padded, dress to just right below the knee-high stockings. I recall this sermon, because of the repentance inducing heat, but it has stayed with me, because of the words my father preached with the fervor of revolution, the focus of faith, and the echoing emotion of a faithful friend.

‘Life’, my father said with a loud whisper, ‘is not meant to be spent sitting in idle mediocrity, dispensing moral judgements like a righteous demagogue. Life must start with practicing what you preach, starting with bodily action, from the tips of your toes, to the tip of your nose. Finishing in the mind’s subconscious.’ This was the time for his always present dramatic pause. ‘Then when you know your truest self, and live as, not LIKE, your faith.’ the word like was said with the staccato punctuation of a southern preacher, ‘People will see the truth in you. If you don’t know how to find what makes you tick, what gets you out of the bed in the morning, or what you actually believe then go, and find it. No matter how far, or how close your truth is...go. Go out into the world, filled with God’s miraculous wonders, and start living your truest life.” But we know how much of that sermon I had taken to heart. I was just about to graduate high school, and had already gotten into college then. The sermon, and the wisdom of a great man, faded as I soon became a newly minted freshman. During those first big city living days, I began to perpetuate the typical youthful angst narrative my father had just preached against. That angst was articulated by recently found scribbles in a journal, dated around my junior year. I must have forgotten I had this leather bound journal as I only used it for this one entry.

I hope to bring discipline into my life. I have such an addictive personality. Whatever it may be, as long as it, somehow, stimulates, or alters my state of mind, from alcohol, drugs, images, sex, and so on. They are vices but seem to be an escape from reality. But is it? Why do I crave constant stimulation? Am I insecure? Am I just an addict? Why can’t I act normally? What about me is not good enough? Is it idle hands? I have blamed boredom before, but I don’t think that is it. I have to be stimulated, like normal life isn’t enough. Is it medical? I am a smart person, and I know better. Yet, I don’t know when to stop. When do I say enough is enough? My body can’t rationalize when it’s done. I am so confused about this. I need clarity, or why I act like this. I’m not saying I am a sinner, and must stop everything. All I am saying is, I need to embrace modest, meaning balance, control, and discipline. For being such a boring, and introspective person, I sure act like a debaucherously moron. Is it a lack of self-respect? I don’t know. I enjoy myself. I will say, I think many of my actions are self-serving, and short sided, repercussions ignored. For someone who cares about the future of others, I don’t seem to care about my health, and moral future. Tagged onto that if I continue this way my professional future will be hindered, as well. Mother will not be happy, and my father not proud. My brain will be muddled, lost, and confused. I need the clarity of being able to stop. Or can I not stop, and must stop all together? I’m torn, and only God, and personal strength can help now.

With purposed recklessness, I had disregarded the wise words of a man whose earthly existence resided in the urn. Oh metal urn gods, speak louder of his great hugs, his smile when he's proud, or memories of epic adventures we shared in our hearts, bodies, and minds. Even now, I still felt my father could hear me embodied by the cool breeze, which continued to make me present. I believed his body was an earthly rental, and he had too. When we had discussed his death in passing jest, he wanted to be cremated, and spread across God’s beautiful earth’. He spoke so nonchalantly of his death, seemingly surrounded by the bright glow of knowledge, and wisdom. Even in death he wanted to seek a greater truth, and self, like his sermon. How could someone be so at peace with their mortality? How could someone be so joyful when so much pain, and sorrow, which plagued our small town, let alone all of humanity? How could he believe in a God who let such devastating depravity destroy the lives of countless souls? How had my father reconciled his existence with the painful realities of human society? There I go with the God bashing again, think positive. I only have myself to blame. Okay…My father exuded a Zen like confident, peace of mind, I only wish would overtake my now worrying mind. I knew on the outside looking in, I now was a success in society’s eyes as a featured political/current affairs columnist for The Patriot of Justice, our local newspaper. My position made me to be a pillar of our town’s Parthenon which seemed to be polished and refined through the motivation of superficiality. My opinions were, finally, respected. I was a demanded commodity whether as a journalist or as the pastor’s child. But it all didn't seem to matter. Even during the enjoyable, still full of dull conversations, and tea, I had at Mrs. Davenshore’s bi-monthly book club. Even the town's cheers of approval of my judging skills during, for example, our fair’s annual apple pie baking contest. Nothing felt fulfilling like my father seemed to be.

Looking back now makes me blush with embarrassment at the narcissism, which concealed my true self, and guided me, maliciously, during these unfulfilling times. I was very attractive in those days. I was also, and still being, as silver tongued as my father, with an intellect to match. My narcissism blurred all moral wisdoms I had received. It told me to put my God given gifts to use, but in the service of my needs, hopes, and wants. Being selfish is so depressing. I never hurt a soul, but I manipulated people’s vain vulnerabilities. I used people’s own vanity, against them, to get my way, with the ever increasing success rate of an ice cream shop on the hottest day of the summer. Soon, what I thought had simply been me controlling my reality in turn mutinied, and consumed my, now selfishly jaded, soul’s motivation. I was always looking out for myself, judging other’s weaknesses to conceal my own insecurities, which I was too smug to acknowledge. I had propped myself up with this illusion of grandeur, and self-ordained destiny. I was to be the savior of the people by showing them the truths in this world; chaos, or order. This was why I became a journalist. Even I can’t hide my impassioned idealism in this small town, as there has been a steady stream of suggestive mention of me being a prospective candidate for mayor “…in the future for sure! Just keep on doing what you're doing”, said the youngest deacon, my old third, and fifth grade elementary teachers, and our local small couch business millionaire. But I had started to feel a void shrouding my blind bliss. Sometimes we can’t see that our problem is our own self, and not the rot we claim to see around us. I wish I could have seen how my narcissism had become my purpose, in time to correct it and make my father proud again. I knew something wasn’t right, like I had interpreted something incorrectly. I replayed the memory of my mother’s speech, with respect to ‘my purposeful promise of future greatness’ film noir. The future seemed fulfilling, but my present potential at the time lacked true, clear, mindedness. That is until a few days ago when the cracked prevailed, and my phone rang. I never did finish editing my cover story on the revitalization of that pleasant senior learning center.

Death Validated by Motionlessness

I heard a gruff voice, which was instantaneously recognized as Doctor Adam Washington, and whose tone made my nerves slip into the sad sense of sea sickness. A sickness like the one felt by an embattled navy man with death on the horizon beyond the crackling waves. “It’s your father. He was found this afternoon unconscious, and unresponsive at the church. He was rushed to the hospital, but regrettably, I was unable to revive him. Respectful pause for time to process. I am sorry, but he has passed away into the arms of his heavenly father.” I remember thinking of the time my father taught me how to use a baseball glove.

There had to have been a case of mistaken identity. I stammered out with a tinge of hope this was all a dream, “... How did he, I mean…. What happened to him?”

“He’d been practicing his sermon, and suffered, what seems to be, a severe heart attack.” The doctor responded with a conciliatory delivery, but I could hear an undercurrent of thought, thanking God it wasn’t one of his family members. During the ride to the hospital I drove on autopilot. It was like having an out of body experience. I could see my hands gripping the steering wheel, with a rage reserved for wrath, as a tear rolled down my cheek. The tear had broken the dark, autopilot, silence with a deafening thud made by unenvied sadness of loss. How could God do this to me? Why now in a time of such personal confusion? My father was my source of clarity, and encouragement. He was healthy, with a mental alertness to match. This was no accident; God did this on purpose. Now I wasn’t just lost in my worrying mind, but my world no longer had a shepherd to guide it past the dark path of life.

When the pimple faced attendee pulled back the bleached white veil, shrouding my father’s lifeless body, the reality of the moment hit me with a force so violent it knocked the air out of my lungs, and harassed my eyes to become an even larger fountain of sorrowed abandonment. As I looked at the face of my father through the haze of heartache, I noticed the features which once defined his being. Strong jaw line, which lately had been rounded out by aging skin. His wrinkled forehead, which reflected his introspective, yet gregarious, disposition. He no longer resembled the man I knew. It was clear now that his body had simply been his soul’s expression to the world, but not his true self. The goodness, and kindness, which made him a force for love had faded from this body in front of me. This was not my father but an imposter. It made me wonder, if his mind, and soul made him the man I loved, then how can I, someone who has committed their life to creating the perfect appearance, be real if the body doesn’t hold the truth of existence. Who am I? What am I doing? By saying I’m helping others while promoting my image aren’t I really just helping myself? Oh my father would be so disappointed with me if he saw the cavernous pit of despair, and emotional fragility I’ve become.

A firm, yet compassionate, hand rested on my shoulder, and shook me back into reality as my eyes focused again on death’s incarnation. “Again, I am so sorry for your loss,” said Doctor Washington apologetically sincere, “He was a great man. He married me, and the missus, bought me my first stethoscope right before leaving for med school. I hope I’ll be half the man he was. He loved you so much, I hope you know that.” As the hand lifted off my shoulder, the good doctor moved to my side and, while mirroring my body language of mournful respect, stood there for what seemed hours. The silence was broken by the intercom paging the man next to me who was, even for a brief moment, my strength, and comfort in keeping my demeanor demure.

“All right, we have to go now.” Doctor Washington said while indicating with a nod to the attendee to pull the shroud back over the alien body before me. Walking to the door, Doctor Washington stopped just short of reentering the real world. He started to pull an object out of his perfectly pressed white lab coat. “The church’s organist brought this in a few minutes before you got here. She thought you may want to see it.” He handed me three folded papers, “It is the sermon your father was working on. Maybe you can find some solace in his words to help you get through this difficult time.” Then with a heartfelt embrace Doctor Washington turned, walked through the doorway, and returned from observing my dance, with death, to reunite with his own story. The countless pages yet to be written. As I followed his footsteps through the doorway, I heard the door snap shut behind me as if he closed a chapter in my story. Looking around anxiously, I found myself wanting to write my next chapter differently. I wanted to run far away from the memories of my father, my mother. Run from the depression of self-realized failure, and from the confines of this naive town with their false sense of mediocre existence. Or should I say my mediocre existence?

After returning home it seemed as though life had forgotten to mourn, as the characters on television still laughed, children gleefully ran down the street during a game of capture the flag, and my microwaved dinner still managed to burn the roof of my mouth. As the night slowly trudged along, I sought the numbing comfort of reality television, helped by a heavy pour of on the rocks. As I tried to forget reality, with someone else’s scripted reality, I felt as if the papers, Doctor Washington gave to me, were sirens steering my attention to its black inked entity. I looked over at the ruffled, blackened pages now in my hands accented with the red ink of edits. It was as if the three pages were the only things that truly existed anymore. The only thing I had to do now was read them. Turning off the television, and pouring more booze to the brim, I settled in my brown leathered reading chair. A gift from my father when I got my first adult job. Taking in a deep, and calming breath, I began to focus on the letters forming words on the page, which would be my father’s last lesson he would give me. ‘Today’s sermon is about the material, societal truths, and the mindful soul’s truth.’ My father, the consummate philosopher. ‘Most of us believe, our saved souls will live on in heaven, and our bodies are a mere vessel to prove our worth to God, whereas, to be brought into his kingdom. We divorce ourselves from the pains of body, the sadness of worldly emotions, and adhere to the absolutism in our faith’s dogmatic moral codes. So, instead of living we wait in judgement and fear. We wait for God to give us direction, wait for life to happen to us, and wait to be told how good, and morally superior we are. These towers of truth we look to as an authority for all things just, right, and real are simply the evolving result of humans trying to make sense of their existence. Yes, we have found truths in nature, but do you think Adam and Eve were told by God to develop a society where pursuits were based on material wealth rather than the wealth of heart and soul? No, they just were. They had to form opinions, and so too did their offspring leading up to us. We have built upon those ideas which inevitably ended up here. They looked for truth in the face of struggle to see an opportunity to transcend this brief life, and to exist forever for their God. The search is, and was, a testament to the concept of God’s immortal love. They did not wait for God, they sought their own truths in finding the peace of God. They did not wait, and let people tell them what to believe. They knew that to know God isn’t about a checklist of right and wrong. Or spewing with superiority biblically interpreted moral judgements, thus one’s dissociation of others. To know God is to see him through experiencing his earth, and meeting other children of God from all walks of life. To learn from them. It is our mind which makes us uniquely human. It is there we can find God, and own self, to decipher truth from reality. I challenge you today to go out into the world, devoid of preconceived notions of truth, morality, and certainty. Make your own way into the kingdom of heaven with God and the human heart knowledge.”

As the words came to an unfinished end, my eyes were drawn to a personal note. my father would often write personal notes to himself in the page’s margins when a moment of philosophical clarity overcame him. Deciphering his thinkwriting… you know, when your hand is writing only thoughts, and there is no order, grammatical caution, or message consistency…. I read the words, which would be the start to my next chapter. ‘I have searched my whole life for God’s peaceful truth, for validation of mine, and God’s existence. But I kept looking into the future, and what things it could be. Or what moral laws I should follow for guaranteeing a future in God's infinite embrace. What a fool I was as it was right here all along. God’s truth, my truth is all found …’, and then it stopped. There was a pen indent next to the blank space where life’s answer was supposed to go. But it ceased. My father faced his death at a moment of resolution. A solution I so desperately needed to hear right now. It was as if God didn't want me to read it, or it wasn't time for humanity to know this reality. In a booze induced hazy rage, I threw my glass across the room, shattering on an unsuspecting beige wall. “This isn't fair God! Why can't you show me who I am?” I started to curse at the superficial world around me, as it retorted with mocking silence. I crumbled to the ground in hopeless despair, and holding the sermon with a fist filled with fury. I began to hear father speaking to me in a hushed, and calming tone, “Oh child, it can't be that easy. If life was that easy we would never hurt, or cry over loss. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and leave this place. Don't be entitled to happiness, and truth, make it happen. There are worldly unknowns, and people you must meet before you find the peace of mind you are seeking. Make your own truth, I'll be right there beside you to see you through it. Now get up, and always remember that I love you.”

That night's sleep came quickly as exhaustion shut down any prospect of staying awake. My mind wandered into the dark hole of introspection, like a merry go round of thoughts, and the ride just keeps going around, and around, and around, spiraling deeper into my soul….

I have hit a snag in the road of life. I am but a lost soul searching for any semblance of reality. Yet in the back of my head I must ask if it is truly societal reality that is lost, and am I merely refusing to conform. I have no want for being a laborer for financial stability. To work to death for standards of living dictated by a materialism. I see the world beyond the desire of money, beyond the greed of comfort which is tied to conformity. The system was just as much a rat race, as the pursuit of moral purity. Putting on a show; style over substance.

I want to see the world, hear stories, and seek out the truth in people. But I struggle with a soul, and mind truly lost; truly frustrated. I want a goal; I want passion directed towards one objective. Yet, in the back of my mind I feel as though I am being a spoiled brat of privilege. That I just have to suck it up, and just get a job, and be like everyone else. Am I too old to become a truth seeker? I am the impoverished fooled searching for life?

My mind is dark, void of present ambition, of settling down with this ‘American Dream’. I feel the urge to just go and leave this small town world. In this world's reality I feel like a loser, but in my mind I feel like no one gets me. I understand that, because right now I don’t even get me. I want to do something of substance outside the confines of a societal expectation, but to have that feeling while void of passion, and blind to direction is a horrible feeling. I am looking for mana from the heavens but I don’t know what to look for.

As I drifted further into a dreamer’s darkness I saw my father floating on a feather. Seeing the huge distance between us I started to yell at him. “Why does it matter what I do? I have to plan.” Hearing my pleas my father came towards me with the speed of a ghost traveling the waves of light. He smiled, and said, “Making sure it happens correctly, but we all know it never works out the way we planned. So why are you even planning? Are you filled with wants? Does it matter what you do? Only thing that matters is you do something which helps people; your fellow humanity. For there is no greater joy than changing the life of another for the better. As we are in God’s image so too must we love our neighbors like God loves us.”

---

The next few days I felt like a programmed robot who nodded graciously as people told me of how amazing my father was, how he'd helped them through hard times, and how he will be missed. A funeral, and twelve casseroles, later there I stood in my living room, motionless, holding my father’s urn. Society’s death march had come to completion, and everyone would go back to their busy lives. But what kept me so still were the questions plaguing my mind. Sure they can go on with their life, but how do I go on with mine? Then like a flash of divine inspiration, I knew what I had to do. I walked over to the phone, dialed a number from an old phone book, and waited excitedly for an answer. Then the phone clicked, “Hey John. It's me. I need to ask you for a favor…”

Motion of Adventure, Less Status Quo

John was a dear friend during my college days. We were nothing alike, which is why we fit together like ying and yang. John was a boisterous, bombastic, opinionated, fun loving dare devil who would be more likely skinny dipping in our campus’s pond, with three-five beautifully Farrah Fawcett blonde sorority sisters rather than finding him engaged in a discussion on the merits of Immanuel Kant’s duality. The complete opposite of that statement was me, and my college persona. I was the naive philosopher; John was the narcissistic playboy. I sought knowledge’s answer to the world’s problems, he sought success, and wealth. John would often proclaim, granted usually when wasted, that upon his death a statue would be built in his honor. “You've got to stop taking life so seriously, it's not all that depressing”, John would tell me, as he popped the first of many Saturday night beers. “This world has so much fun to be had, and money to be made. Don't waste those good looks on a book.” Throwing a beer at me, forcing me to drop my copy of Candide to save my body from the metal projectile, “Enjoy life a little.”

Enjoy life a little, that was exactly what I planned to do. I knew John would be more than happy to oblige. I also knew that John had recently been promoted to oversee the European division at some fancy global bank. With the promotion John was living in Europe now. From what I gathered he had an apartment in cities across Europe, like Lisbon, Paris, and London. One apartment location had stuck out in my mind, especially with it being the destination my father dreamed of visiting. So, after the required catch up conversation, and him expressing hallmark card lines about my father, I got to business.

“John, am I correct in saying you have access to an apartment in Greece?”

“Yeah, just outside of Athens.” John confirmed, “I was actually just there for business. Now I’m held up in Paris for the next few weeks, or so. Why do you ask?” John sounded interested in my line of questioning. Like an adventure, but I could tell he was busy at work.

“Well I've got to get out of this town for a while. Let loose, process, and live a little. I have money to buy my ticket, but was wondering if I could stay there for a while. Or least until I clear my head. You, or your boss, won’t even know I was there.” My father had always said the one place he wanted to go was the birthplace of western civilization, and that was exactly where I was going to take him.

“Of course you can stay there, and don't worry about making a mess. No one even cares who I have stay. I’m my own boss these days! Well, anyways, you deserve it but it's conditional.” I was shocked by his compassion. I saw how wrong we can be by applying our initial observations of others to our definition of their character, making them static, and unable to learn, and grow.

“John, thank you, you really don't…”

John cut me off, “Stop with your pleasantries. You know I dislike sappy, drawn out moments. Just promise me you'll step outside your comfort zone. Channel some John.”

I chuckled, “Yes John. I promise.”

“And I don't mean like college”, John began to clarify his condition, “I mean taking in the beauty around you. Interacting with it. Life isn't only in books, my dearest of friend.” As we finished sorting details I hung up, and processed what just happened. Has it been so long I don't even know John anymore? I knew him as reckless. No, he sounded focused, and mature. Still a little crazy, but mature. I had always thought I was better than him, because I knew so much more, and I sought a life of enlightenment. I thought I would, one day, be opening up my home to him for when his partying had sent him into a failure spiral. Oh, how the tables had turned. Oh, how naively pompous I was about my knowledgeable importance. It was a humbling realization coupled with acknowledging I was no better, or worse than John. I had told myself that, because in my emotional subconscious I had been jealous. I coveted his charisma, his sex appeal, his cool, approachable demeanor, and his uncanny ability to make life work for him. I greatly dislike how I second guess myself, and within minutes I'd convince myself to stay in, and read my favorite, Spinoza, because at least with books, I controlled the characters, and could escape my anxious fear of reality. Look at John. He tackled life, and has become a true ‘American Dream’ success story, and here I was holding my father’s ashes in a home where I live alone. Alone to shield myself from the pain of a world I now realize I may have misread. Just like I had John.

That night as I prayed in bed, lingering in that mental purgatory of being alert, and deep asleep, I pictured myself in Ancient Athens with my father. I was wearing a black toga, while my father wore a one which was purple, with white, and yellow accents. Close to my father was also a man, whose beard’s long, graying, hair was a testament to his age of life experience. It was as if the old man, and my father were having an impassioned discussion I simply could not make out. They were gesticulating with such heart that I so desperately wished to be included, “Can you speak up?” I politely interjected, but it was as if they couldn't even see me. I began to jump around like an ignored child. As the sun started to set behind the two old men sitting on mossy rocks in the shadow of temple's antiquity, all became eerily still. The bearded man finally turned towards me after I had ceased jostling around, and we made eye contact. His eyes roared with the blue ocean waves, and with each passing second I could see deeper, and deeper into his wisdom. Then breaking the focus, the man spoke with all the powers his eyes possessed, “Respect the process. How selfish must you be to demand answers for questions you don't even know?” Then as my body crossed over into the land of dreams, I saw the two men start transforming. One into an olive tree, and the other into an orange tree.

---

Before having the time to process what I had gotten myself into, the departure day descended onto my destiny. All goodbyes were said, and bills paid for, bags packed, tickets, and passport in hand. All that was left was one final, obsessive compulsive, check of the alarm system, locked doors, and running faucets. All my small town possessions were haphazardly stuffed into an old, green, soldier, duffle bag with the name Jones, white-stamped on the side. I had purchased it at a second hand store along with a brown side bag, which, after researching its design, was a vintage German gas mask carrier circa 1940s. I also had brought along my brown suede journal. It was the same one from college that I had found a few days ago. I had to bring it, because it had yet to be finished.

After the house was finalized, I could sense a break from my reality as I checked for my unspoiled, unblemished, blue passport. Its pristine edges corroborated my greenhorn globetrotting gullibility. I rather a great adventure, than going back into the vice enabling, mediocrity buttressing home. As I waited for my taxi, I felt compelled to pivot towards my home, my past in a sudden, and synchronized whirl, with the westward winds. Instead of seeing my house, my gaze caught the waving magnolia tree my father and I had planted after the first time my mother, ‘had to go away for a few months’. As the tree, said it's good bye, with its branches dancing with the westward wind, I was struck with an all-consuming memory of how, after planting the tree, I would sit outside for hours, twiddling my thumbs, and waiting for it to grow. With the rationale of a child, I decided if I watered it every few minutes it would grow faster. It made logical sense to me until I ran to my dad in a distraught state, as the tree seemed withered by death’s grasp. “The tree is dying just like her. I’ve done everything you told me to do.” Sob, sob, sniffle, runny nose rub, “I even feed it more, so it will grow big, and strong. It can never leave us too.” My father, took my hand with a comforting grin, and sauntered towards the droopy, infant branches of a tree I was convinced was my mother. With his hand grasped behind his back, he kept circling, and making a ‘humph’ sound, like when one is thinking. Looking back, he probably already knew what was wrong. He probably had been watching my tree routine the past few days from an out of sight, out of mind location. After what felt like an eternity, my father stopped his pacing looked towards me, “It's going to be okay, so wipe those tears away. But come over here, and sit with me, because I need to tell you a story.” My emotionally, blotchy face began returning to its natural shade while cuddling up next to my father; I could feel the blades of grass tickle my skin like it was alive. “There once was an ant that used to live in these very blades of grass,” He delicately dragged his fingers across their green tips. “Even though young ants are small anyway, this one ant was so small the whole ant colony felt only pity for him, and gave him the easy job of counting the food, and building materials. Even though no other ants treated him badly, the little weak ant felt angry, and set out to prove the whole colony wrong. He had been told never to eat beyond what you need. But the little ant wanted to be big, strong, and prove to them he was the best ant. When no one was looking, the weak ant started to eat, and eat, and eat some more. Even when his stomach warned him he was making a mistake. But the little weak ant ignored his body, ignored the wisdom of the colony, and ignored his gut because he was so selfish and lived only in the future. Time passed, and the next wave of hunter ants returned their food items. They were whistling with pride as this day had brought much food to hold the colony through winter. Their joy was short lived, for the weak little ant had eaten himself to death to be strong. Instead he died, and that winter managed to kill half of the colony’s strongest ants who gave up their ration to make up for the greed of the little weak ant’s vanity. You see, sometimes we think we want something so bad we will do anything to get it, but always pay more attention to nature, and what it’s telling you instead of what you want for yourself.” Leaning over into my ear, “I’m going to tell you a little cheat I learned when I was much older than you, but wish I had known. Everything in nature, including you, me, and this tree, works like a machine. Your arm is like the tree’s branches, and your mind is like its roots. We can study how nature’s machines work all day, but what most people don't know is, there is a missing piece. Unless you know about the missing piece, life will just be the same routine, and despite knowing how everything works, it never seems to work. That’s because we aren’t looking for the machine's soul. Every machine is made just a little different, and to make sure it works properly you have to know its soul. Like this tree, you were right to water it, because that is how the machine is supposed to work. But, did you think about what this specific tree needed? It is young, and the soil we planted it in is already very healthy. So by adding too much water you gave the tree too much of what its mechanics desires. Its soul should have told you to stop. Sometimes all it takes is a little patience, and care. You’ll learn, soon enough, to see the machine, and the soul which makes nature unique.”

The story must have distracted my mind, because before I knew it I was grasping my airplane seat, as the front wheels launched off the tarmac, like a bull dressed in silk, and my eyelids shut my awareness into a drug induced sleep.

“Sir… sir.” I awoke to an angelic flight attendant voice, and noting my open mouthed comatose state, I sat up with the fervor of a child caught stealing a cookie. “We are about to land. Can you please return your seat to its upright position?” Doing as I was told, “Please fill this entry card, and welcome to Greece.”

After the shuffle of rushed people grabbing bags, exiting the plane, and coupled with the long line at customs I still was in awe of where I stood. Somebody pinch me! I went up to the counter excitedly anticipating the deflowering of my passport. The grump of a man with slumped posture, and disheveled shirt, looked at my passport. Bored observation of my passport led him to then looked at me with an unimpressed disposition? “American?”

“Yes, this is my first…”

“Go…” He said tossing my passport back under the window. Being jolted by his aggressiveness, I quickly stammered away, only to realize a few seconds later he hadn’t stamped my passport. Not only was my passport still untarnished, but I was in a foreign country with no proof of my arrival. As far as the world knew, I was nowhere, and everywhere at the same time. It was as if I was free. I could see the sun slowly rising through the windows of the Athens airport, which had a musty scent of dew, and dust with a silence reserved for a library. That silence was quickly broken as I threw my bag onto my back, walked towards the exit sliding doors. When the doors started to creak open, it let in sounds I had never heard before. It was a tranquil hustle and bustle. It smelled of cigarettes, antiquity, and ageless possibility. What had I done? I asked myself while rummaging through my bag looking for John’s address jotted down on a cocktail napkin.

“You need a taxi?” A man with a pot belly, which shoved his short sleeve button up shirt beyond his control exposing a bit of stomach. He smiled in the most refreshing way. It was as if he knew I needed help, or we had met before, or maybe the universe had told him I was coming. “This must be your first time here, yes?”

“Yes, this is my first time here.” I retorted, unintentionally absorbing his broken English accent pattern into my speech; I guess to make him feel comfortable with me. Always in search of the approval of others, even strangers.

“Welcome to Athens! Home of democracy, and philosophy. Come, I take your bag!” I felt so vulnerable as he took my comfort shield, and cordially placed my duffle into the back of a black sedan. Then I made eye contact with his deep blue, youthfully happy, eyes. I could have sworn I had seen him, or known him before. There is no way I know him. What is it called when I have Déjà vu, but with people? Getting into the back of the car I handed him the napkin, and got a glimpse of the beauty that is the Greek alphabet on his taxi license. The potbellied man’s name was Kronos. Even in his license photo his smile was addictive, like a wise grandfather who was proud of you. “I know where you need to go, I know. Thirty minutes.” He said with his hand extended, palm down, moving it like a seesaw indicating that was an approximation. He started the car, and attempted to navigate through a sea of misguided cars of returning, or parting, lovers. I gazed out onto the unknown land which took on an orange hue of birth from the emerging sun. The land was like something I had never seen. The airport was modern with accents of Greek pride. Yet, the landscape jolted my imagination as I was surrounded by rolling hills, with splashes of trees, and a blue sky which seemed to sit still. Like its clouds had been resting after years of observing humanity's evolution.

I felt as though I had traveled back in time; like I could see Aristotle, Alexander the Great, or Jesus Christ pop over a hill at any time. My framework understanding of human existence was limited by the time frame of my American society. My consciousness never fathomed a time prior to the American Colonies, as it defined my existence, but not my human existence. Being in the birthplace of western thinking, I began to see the bigger picture of history. My lifetime seemed so minuscule and insignificant compared to the wonder of ancient antiquity. This awareness of humanities history is what gives people wanderlust; I could feel it overtaking my senses like I had been injected with a relaxant, and the worries of the past evaporated into the calm, motionless, clouds above me. I understood now. For once you break out of your bubble, and see time as what it really is, you crave more knowledge of the things that were. Whereas to become the thing you want.

“Where are you from?” Kronos asked, startling me out of my time freezing subconscious, and back into present reality.

“America.”

“North, or South continent?” He asked with a chuckle. “I joke, it is just there are two Americas, and U.S. thinks they are both.”

I never thought about that before. I was already questioning my purpose for existence, and now Kronos had me questioning my citizenship’s namesake. If this was any indication of my internal exploration, I was certainly in for a doozy of an experience.

I laughed, mirroring his chuckle with an edge of confusion, and processing. “Well, then I should say I am from the United States of America.” I think I started to hum the national anthem. Like that would mean anything to him.

“Which state do you live?” Kronos asked, seemingly interested, and excitedly intrigued to get to know me. “I love USA! I have family there in …. Uh… New York. I hope to visit, but life is not so good here now. Maybe you can take me back in your luggage?” Clearly Kronos was filled with a timeless humor which not only engages but draws in its listener. It felt like I wasn’t paying for a taxi, which smelled of fresh jasmine, but for a counseling session.

“I’m from one of the states no one knows about.” For some reason, I wanted to maintain a mysterious anonymity, as I clutched the copper urn in my side bag. I hope you are seeing all of this father. A tingling warmth brushed my arms. Kronos kept going.

“Well, I am from Athens! This has been home for fifty-three years. But I meet so many people I have lived a hundred lifetimes.”

“I imagine being a taxi driver you have many stories to tell.”

“Oh yes, but usually the good stories aren’t in the taxi. Most people are in a rush, and see me as just a driver.” Sensing my absolute attention, Kronos paused, and smiled to himself as if to reveal a secret. No wonder Kronos felt like he could tell me anything, because I felt myself, for the first time in a while, wanting to hear his every word. It was as if where, and when, I stepped off the plane, I became a blank, human, canvas which craved the brush strokes of new knowledge. As we zipped down a major farrow way in a weaving practice I had never experienced. Kronos loudly whispered over the cars whizzing by us, with a definitive blast of horn, “I am really a philosopher you know. I have lived the life of Plato, Archimedes, and even Nietzsche, and Rousseau. It is what we Greeks do in our hearts, our souls are thoughts, and our bodies just go through the motions of society.” As he spoke I knew his words were that of poetic expression, his English became refined, as if touched with the ability to speak in tongues, but I had this feeling father was telling me to take him literally.

“How have you been all those people, and still find yourself in THIS place? Don’t you worry about money and the future like I do?” Unintentionally, I let slip my bias for a material world’s success, and my search for prospects of plundering a new world ‘American Dream’.

“Money is paper; time is not real. I drive a taxi, because I get to think. As most people are on their phones, or stressed about the small, I get to sit, and contemplate being. What a great day I have in the illustrious company of past lives. They were not just wise men. They were ideas. I am those ideas too.”

Kronos certainly spoke with the metaphysical dramatics of a philosopher. But how could such a hodgepodge, unkempt man be so in tuned with these ‘ideas’? So what if he read their books, and understood their logic? That doesn’t mean he now has any right to lay claim to their minds, and accomplishments. I felt as though I was being shamefully stared at by the olive trees we sped by, as my mind assessed the logic, and a rational application of Kronos’s words. Only a God could be infinite, only God could know the heart of humanity, as Kronos claimed to know.

“I appreciate your imagery, but money is real, as I will pay you when we arrive. Time is also real, for how did you know we would be there in thirty minutes? You certainly do have a way with words though!”

“Because the words are not mine, and are natural in truth. Look at your dollar bill, it says debt on it. It’s not that money isn’t necessary for us to coexist in an orderly society. It’s just a construct someone, probably Greek, created, and we’ve simply all agreed it to be our collective truth. As for time, we can observe it, like money, in the movements of others and self, but in its natural form it lacks the constant nature society would have you believe. Observe time from two different train station attendants, and their timed observations of a train leaving one of the stations for the other. Won’t the train exist on different time schedules, depending on the station’s distance, and the attendees observed time of departure and arrival? No matter if you agree with me, or not, no matter what, all the solutions we as humans have found belongs to all of us to agree, or disagree with. They are yours, and his.” He pointed to a child, with tousled hair, and dirt smeared on his face. The child was holding his mother’s hand at a crosswalk where we sat idle waiting for the light to turn. We were getting close, but something in me didn’t want to stop talking. I almost told him to just circle around a little bit more, because why would Kronos think a boy, barely able to speak, make sense of this pontification. How did he expect me to separate the mechanics of time, and money, with their natural, philosophical, state of inconsequence?

“The child cares not for money, but for care. The boy cares not for punctuality, but for life. How can one person care so much for something, and another doesn’t care for it at all? Either one is a fool, or the object of desire isn’t real.”

His calm, and collected tone when saying such earth shattering statements, made me envious of his mind. I had to challenge it even if that meant certain failure. “Everything has a place, and role. The boy just doesn’t know how the ‘machine’ of humanity works yet. If I can see it, touch it, explain it … well it must be real.” Machine? My subconscious must still be fixated on the memory of my father, the tree, and the weak little ant story. The urn made a linking sound against my books as we came to a stop in front of an alluring apartment building, I was to call home now. Yet, even as we arrived, I was still too focused on giving my two cents on the narrative Kronos lived his life by.

“Yes, we are all humanity, and one day that boy will know the great ideas of philosophers too. Who knows, maybe he is the next success story.”

“You are right,” Kronos said with something greater on his mind, “We are all the same, but success is like virtuous art, it only is true from the perspective of the one observing it. I must concede we all hope for validation of self through success, but be weary of defining one’s success by the squinting eyes of strangers. The only success you need is the success you feel now. Yes, the boy may not be the philosopher today, but look! Today you have already succeeded in being a philosopher, even in the back of this old taxi. Thank you for your time, and money, my North American friend.” Kronos turned, smiled at me with a warmth I hadn’t seen on a face in years, “One day you will see it. Your journey has just begun. You are like the ocean, calm before the tide, but holds the rage of chaos, seen, but yet released.” Kronos pointed to the ocean. As I followed his finger, I realized I had neglected to even look at the heavenliness around me, I had forgot to take it all in.

As I finally set my gaze on the ocean I no longer cared for the future, with its time clocks, and unpredictable money markets. It was a picture sketched on to my mind’s memory walls with its bright blues, matched by the rough, rugged, rocks, which were seemingly emerging like they were the tips of Poseidon’s trident. Mesmerized, I stepped out of the car, lost in the waves of new found splendor. As Kronos handed me my bag from the trunk, he looked at me, and while I paid, he said, “I know you are willing to take the road less traveled, but you seem to have lost the directions toward the fork in the road. See you in this life, or the next,” and like that Kronos drove off with a wave out the window. There went my first adventure of finding my soul’s purpose.

A Little Less Future, and More Present

The lobby of John’s apartment building seemed like it had been transplanted from an Ikea catalogue display, which was equally matched by the blindingly shiny golden elevator. It matched perfectly the key John had sent me a few weeks earlier. Even my new ‘home’s front door looked like a modernist take on linear metallic geometrics. Opening the ornate, metal, door, I was not surprised to see the apartment look so pristine. There was no way John decorated this. Everything looked so fragile, and elegant. The blue fleeced blanket perfectly draped on the leathered psychiatrist chair, and cubism inspired art of the many faces of humanity drawn in a Picasso scattered fashion. They looked to be expensive hotel art, but the drawn faces gave off the aura of ‘Don’t TOUCH the Merchandise’, with a smug, privileged disposition. It felt like no one had ever lived here. Like it was all a front for some top secret government bunker, and if I pulled down one of the antiqued books, located on the bookcases built into the walls, at a 45-degree angle, a secret passage way door would swing open to reveal why this apartment was so dead. It was such a celestially cold clime, and its perfection made me feel pensive.

It’s like everything is a lie. Maybe I’m just projecting my subconscious’ lost sense into this place. Just let it go, make it home, because it’s the only home you have. Let it be perfect, and don’t let it intimidate you, because we know nothing. No one can be perfect, because that requires knowing the future. John probably just comes here to eat, and sleep. I know he is very busy, what with Greece about to default on repaying the loans his bank gave them years ago. It’s not looking good.

John probably doesn’t even realize how cold it is in here. He probably has the exact same apartment all over Europe. But for someone who enjoys the moment, he seems to care very little for having material wealth that is infused with love, and life. How disconnected from the history, stories, and life found in Greece. It was the epitome of material success, and that’s why John probably didn’t notice the falsity of it all. It was a reminder of how far he had come. How could such an expensive, meticulously detailed, and eccentric modern molding feel so dead? Shouldn’t something which defines success be more alive?

The kitchen was fully stocked, placed ever so linearly, and comically in alphabetical order. Yes, the apples were next to the bananas. The milk was next to the meat. The bread was next to the cheese. Such time consuming order of things, I thought as I chowed down on a sandwich, and poured a glass of very sweet Greek wine. Very, very sweet, but this sandwich tastes so… so…. fresh. I guess routines, and order allow for us to go through the day faster, and efficiently. Yet, there is a lack of excitement when your days are so routinely similar it’s like life becomes like that movie ground hog’s day. But the difference is we age, and chaos isn’t predictable. Order is so predictable.

The balcony was something else though. Not the structure but the scenery. Views like this are what dreams are made of, and makes life’s hardships worth it all. I could hear the waves still pounding against the rocks through the trees, and surrounded by those jagged cliffs. But it was the breeze, the most calming, intoxicating, and warming breeze. I can only compare it to receiving a hug from a long lost love. You know. Like when you are in the airport, waiting for them to get off their plane, and when you see them exiting the gate you both run into each other’s arms. That type of hug. I let my mind take over my focus, as I started to process the fact I had actually followed through on this crazy adventure idea. What was I thinking? I had a good life, surrounded by people who adored me, and a town that could have been on the cover of any small town USA magazine. But my life was just like John’s apartment. It all looked immaculate. So don’t you dare move anything, or redecorate, because this is how it’s supposed to be. It’s like life demanded I be routine, orderly, and never doubt the perfection. But the problem with too much perfection like this cube of a home, and in life too, is that once you are surrounded by it, all the time it loses its value. The orderly lines become barbed wires, and you feel suffocated by monotony, and society. Why do we do that to ourselves? That feeling of walls coming in on me was why I had to leave. The walls started to move in faster, following father’s death. I guess I still wanted to make him proud of me, to make up for my youthful rebellions. I wanted it so bad that I put my blinders up so I couldn’t see what made me tick, and walked along the yellow brick road towards what society defines a successful human; guided by the cheers of my dad beaming with pride. That’s all I wanted. But when mother was gone, followed by her husband, I have no one to do it all for anymore. I am alone, with my thoughts, joined by a soul, which has been wilting. It wilts, because I have neglected to water it for years. Who am I when I stand alone, and no one to show me how to be?

After falling asleep, I had the same ancient Greece dream again. This time we were visibly standing right in front of the Parthenon. I was still dressed in a black toga, and my father now sat under my mother’s tree. The old wise, bearded, man was Kronos. This time they both were staring at me as their yellow togas, and beards swayed in a wind that only seemed to affect the distance scholars as the trees stood motionless above them. Kronos stood, and rested his hand on my shoulder, only to turn me around to see the city beneath me. It was a city which looked ancient, and modern at the same time. The buildings were a dark red, and the streets were of brick, and multi-hued jewels. The people, who wore nothing, stood as motionless as I had been a few days ago, and now just like the trees enclosing the town below. Time had stopped. Their naked bodies seemed more refreshing than vulgar, and seemed more like an artistic expression. There was a man who was selling bread at a wooden, brightly painted, kiosk with long flowing hair. He had the same hairless upper body of Hercules, and hands that had the capacity to crush a simpleton’s skull. Yet, he smiled with a humbling, and sincere showing of teeth. There was also a young lady, about my age, who seemed to have been out for a stroll, eating an apple. Her legs seemed so graceful in their still state, her torso perfectly feminine, and blonde curls that went for days. She seemed deep in thought, but good thoughts as her eyes roared with a passion only seen in the wise, the eccentric, and content. “You see,” Kronos said as my father slowly approached my other side to join in the unbashful view. “If you take the time to see the present, there is more to life than the next step, the next sale, and the next moment. Do you see their wealth; do you see their morals, or soul? Just a glimpse into another human’s momentary expression of existence.”

“Much of how we process the existence of the infinite reality of nature, and the universe, and our finite being is through the concept of time. For many time is a measurable, numerical system that is set to specific intervals for specific points during earth’s rotation around the sun.” My father nodded in agreement, as he sniffed the succulent scent of a sunflower. Kronos continued, “It is the clock, daylight savings, time zones, and weather conditions. Yet, before the concept of time is expounded on in relation to the infinite, and finite, it must be understood that the belief of time, like on a clock, was developed by humans, and for humans, whereas, to synchronize our community. Thus producing a greater chance of communication, interaction, and output. It does not exist in a naturally constant form except for the passing of sunlight, and temperature changes. What we believe to be time is not at all as what it seems. Time is a system which has its own rules, thus allowing for an infinite universe.”

“It is with this understanding that the borders of time we think to be reality are in fact drawn, human reasoned, lines of orderly rules to harness our nature. For it is only with nature, and its functionality, we are aware of the need to monitor the passing of time.” As Kronos paused, both philosopher’s began to fade down into the earth beneath them. “To best understand time would be to look at nature’s trends. Whether tides, or sunsets, there are no natural rules to limit the scope of time’s existence. We do a great disservice to natural time by attempting to harness time when it is not possible.”

As Kronos’ presence faded into the mossy stones and patches of trees, my father whispered through the wind, “All this to say, there is nothing fundamentally wrong with creating a system of time, whereas, to produce a well-functioning society. But that is all it is; a construct of our nurtured society. For in the future they may scoff at our timekeeping system just as we do with the Mayan calendars, and so on. To see time in its truest form, we must reflect the same entity which will still exist in the future, and that is nature.”

---

I awoke with the urgency of the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, ‘I’m late, I’m late!’ was all my mind could process, as I focused my eyes on to the electronic clock, whose robotic numeric green display showed I was awake at the unnatural waking hour of two in the afternoon. I was still tired, and if anything, felt as though I woke up too soon. Adjusting my comprehension of where I was, and how out of place I felt in this Ikea advertisement cut out room, I understood my odd morning time. I was experiencing jet lag. The dreaded killer of many amateur world travelers. Back home it was only seven in the morning. I would be getting up to start my daily routine of back porch tea time, as I smoked two-three cigarettes, while reading which ever holy book inspired happiness in me at the time. Thinking about how my body was programed to wake up at this time regardless of the sun’s location, reminded me of my dream. Was the reality of time simply the training of my body to function at predetermined times? My time reality no longer was accurate, because I threw a few hours into the mix. Now for a few days my whole life would be turned upside down. It was as if jet lag was the secret variable, which proved time to be only a human creation. Time only existed, because I told my body it did. I guess I taught my body these created rules because society showed me I had to adhere to the laws of time to be a productive citizen. This realization gave me a greater sense of freedom. Freedom from plans, schedules, and accountability. I sipped my green tea sitting on a faux bamboo chair placed oddly on my balcony, as the beach’s night breeze seemed to comb my bed head hair.

Holding the mass produced mug, with John’s bank logo in golden trim on its side, I leaned over the balcony’s iron banister to observe the people of my new town of Varkiza. I perched over just in time to see an elderly woman hobble over to an orange tree, which grew from the middle of the sidewalk. Wearing all black, she seemed to lose all age as she leapt up, overcoming her arched shortness, to grab a coveted orange. As she started to peel her prize, she continued on her hobbling way to her next adventure.

I then saw a boy in a bright red swimsuit, an inflatable elephant tube around his waist, pulling his father whose excitement matched his son’s. The boy yelled a cheer, while thrusting his clinched fist into the air as the man picked up the boy, and began speeding like a train towards its final destination. Amazed by the two moments I shared with complete strangers, I now sensed their truest joys and absorbed their timeless energy. Chugging the rest of my tea, I scurried inside, took a quick bird bath, threw on some jeans, and a yellow t-shirt I found resting on top of my still packed duffle. I grabbed my side bag, said hello to my father, resting on my nightstand, as I scampered out the door with as much glee as the elephant riding boy with the red swimsuit. Waiting for the elevator, I barely recognized the figure which was reflected in one of the many ornately, gaudy mirrors strewn randomly through the floor. My old self would have planned to the minute every excursion I choreographed taking that day. Hell, I would have even planned the times I could relax, or have fun. Maybe it was an American thing, or maybe a personal thing. Whatever it was, I had mentally discarded my need for caution. DING. As the elevator opened, I caught a glimpse of myself in its mirrors. For being in an excited rush, I still looked far too put together, projecting a tight ass demeanor. Exiting the building, I took in the biggest breath I had ever taken as I strolled over to the orange tree to pick the first of many nectarines. I felt my thumb against its rough, and natural skin. It felt so alive, its color was a deep orange, an orange I had never seen. As I began to peel away its defenses, it spat its ripe juices, almost hitting my eye. Walking towards the beach I took the first bite, and it made me stop with ecstasy. How could something which I have had hundreds of times taste so amazingly, freshly, new? Was it, because my new found happiness altered my perceptions of things? Or had mother nature simply given a little extra love to this orange? While eating ecstasy, I walked past, what seemed to be, a coffee bar where old men, the men you envision when you think about Greeks, sat at a white plastic table outside with small, copper, coffee cups, and a rousing game of backgammon. A cloud of lingering cigarette smoke, which was only disseminated by the vibrations of the men’s booming laughter. Their concentration, and stories of days gone by, was interrupted when they cast their focus on me. “You America?” One man said, with an inquisitive, and welcoming, smile. How could they tell by looking at me that I was American? I had a dark complexion, and thought I would fit right in. Throwing the peels of my orange in the trash bin next to them, “Yes I am. How did you know?”

“You walk with a stick up your ass!” SEE! They all began to laugh, but it wasn’t a mocking laugh, it was a sincere observation, and pride in guessing correctly. I awkwardly laughed in return, whereas, to look like the stick up my ass wasn’t too big. “We kid, we kid,” said the rotund fellow whose mustache was waxed to a pointedly curled end. “Honestly, it is your shoes, and your big camera. Only nosey Japanese, and wealthy Americans have cameras like that., and you are no Japan.” They laughed again, doing a fake bow, at which time, I mimicked them with a bow, and pretended to take their picture. “Where you from in USA?”

Change the subject. I want anonymity. “Nowhere you would know. This is my first day in Greece. What a beautiful country you have!”

“Yes, we like it. You are welcome!”

“For what?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t a rude response but was my gut response.

“Democracy!” They really take a pride in their influence on western civilization. Kronos yesterday, and now these old mustached men. It was as if they lived for the past, and forgot about the present.

“Oh yes! Yes, thank you. We like it enough.”

“Sit down, we get you some coffee. They are boring me,” The mustached man said, pointing to two other men who were recently laughing with him, but now seemed more mesmerized by the American stranger. “You sit, we talk about USA, and why you in Greece.”

“Oh thank you, but I just woke up, and am very hungry. I will come back, but I have to go eat. Where could I go, exactly?”

“Young people! Always going, but never stop to look at where you stand.” It was a funny statement, because I had just said how old, and in the past, they were, and he just accused me of being too young, and living in the future. I followed his fingers, which pointed at the sign above the cafe. “Mo’s Cafe” the sign read. Looking back down, both his thumbs were now pointing at his burly chest, and with a cheesy grin beamed, “I am Mo. My wife, Helena, is the chef here. Come, she will make you the best Greek food! You like lamb, yes?”

Taken aback by how quickly a passing moment evolved into a lunch date, “Uh, sure. Yes… Thank you, that would be wonderful.” The two other men squished their wooden chairs over to make room for the skinny American, as they kept smiling at me with wonder. As I sat down on the chair, which age was demonstrated by the wobbling of one leg, Mo quickly said, “Please forgive my friends. Their English is not so good, and we don’t see many Americans, but on the television.”

I nodded, as to express my understanding of the situation, as one of the two men, looked at me with a thumbs up, and broad smile, exposing his missing teeth, to declare, “Here’s Johnny!” His smile did not go along with the horror film’s infamous line, but I knew he was merely saying ‘hello’, and ‘welcome friend’. I laughed, and with thumbs up, I said “Thank you!”

Here’s Johnny then pointed at me, and asked, “New York?”

“No, no.” I shook my head in the negative, “Far away!” I politely screamed, as I gesticulated distance with my hands. Why did I speak so loudly? He still won’t understand me no matter my volume. Showing a sense of sadness, Here’s Johnny accepted my answer, and proceeded to sip on his small cup of coffee.

“Don’t worry about him,” Mo said, with the serenity, and physicality of the Buddha, “He loves to watch the American show ‘Friends’, and thinks every American is from L.A, or New York City.

Here’s Johnny quickly looked up, and started to sing, “Smelly ceit, smelly ceit, what is they feed you?” It took almost everything to not fall out of my chair in laughter. As a genuine, twinkling, smile came across my face it seemed to be infectious, as all three men began to descend into the deep, and rolling laughter, I had observed only a few minutes ago, as a traveling stranger. As I cleared my tears away. I saw Mo returning to the table with a new little coffee cup, and placing it in front of me.

“This is Turkish coffee. It grows the hair on my chest! Enjoy!” Mo said, as he brushed down the hairs attempting to escape from his undershirt collar. He wasn’t lying about it potency. When I sipped it like I would a Starbucks venti, I was overrun with such strong bitterness. It tasted like engine fuel, but an after taste which made me crave more. “So why are you in Greece?” Mo asked, as I kept sipping on my new caffeine confidante.

“My father always wanted to visit. So I decided to come for a vacation.”

“Your father here too?”

“No, he passed recently.” Mo quickly translated, and they all bowed their heads, removed their fisherman caps with respect, and returned the hats quickly. “No need. He did everything in life he wanted except for this. So I am spreading his ashes in the Mediterranean. I think tomorrow.”

“Well, whether today or tomorrow, you are a good son for fulfilling your father’s wishes. I know he is proud. Just like I am of my son. You remind me of my son. He lives in Athens; I will tell him to show you around. Where are you staying?”

“Oh my friend owns an apartment up the road.”

“American too?”

“Yes, but he only visits when…” As I was speaking Mo had been translating, and all three cut me off with a resounding, and joyous. “JOHN!”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“He is a crazy American. How do you say this? Um, he is like America, thinks he knows everything, and has too much money to know better. But that’s why we love America! So innocent, and always moving! We, Greece, are so old, and now so poor. We like America!”

“Well, we can switch. I love Greece!”

“It is your first day! Don’t be so quick to love. Love is a tricky thing. Don’t confuse lust for true love.” As he spoke of love his true love, Helena, came out holding plates with food billowing over. Helena had the sweat of a chef over her brow, with her dirty blonde hair pulled up into a disheveled bun, held together by a pencil.

“Hello America!” she said with a grandmother’s tone, and a loving twinkle in her eye. “I hope you enjoy my food. My family has made this recipe for many, many, years. Try! Try!” She politely demanded, pointing to the plate of what looked like a Gyro. She then rested her fists on her hips, blew up the hair, which had straggled out in front of her face, and watched. I picked up the monstrosity of food in my hand, and as I bit into it my taste buds, again, went into enjoyment overload. It tasted so fresh, with spices that jumped all over my tongue with a newfound excitement. The sauce was a cool, cucumber, reminder of serenity against the piping hot, juicy, lamb slices.

“Holy mother of God!” Was the only thing I could muster as I seemingly sat back, limp, expressing a content surrender to its unholy goodness!

“That is what I thought you’d say.” Helena squealed, as she turned on her heel to return to her kitchen.

We all continued to eat as the conversation went from the typical strangers meeting strangers dialogue of professions, hobbies, love, family, and as our plates were cleared, the day slowing, turned into night. The coffee cups became wine glasses and the conversation became more personal. Personal, like we had been friends for decades. Personally, it felt like I was just another one of the elders, talking of times gone by. The two other men whose broken English had kept them from properly joining in, had wandered off right after dinner. All which was left were the personal questions, a jug of wine, and an empty chair, which was soon filled by Helena.

“I just felt as though I had no purpose back home after my father died.” My candor was clearly the third glass of wine speaking. “I realized all I had was him, especially after my mother is gone as well.”

“How did your mother die?”

“She left us.” This was a lie, but I hadn’t spoken the truth, not even to myself until just recently. The wound was too fresh to expose to others. I liked Mo, but I hadn’t, and decidedly, would never express my angered shame to others. The shame of suicide. “It was funny, but my first memory of my mother wasn’t exactly a great one. It was the first time I was called lost. Not the lost in the literal dark, but the figurative dark. It was in fact my mother who called me lost.”

Seeing that Mo had assumed the head on hand position, whereas giving me his sincere listening ear, I let my mind tell a story rather than speaking of pain. Isn’t that what all great artists do? “She was a slender lady, whose tight hair bun expressed her outward prudish demeanor, but also hid her addictions, and torments. It was a few days after my sixth birthday. I had received the standard, pajama set, and seven pairs of socks. Instead of inviting the neighbors over, I had discarded the gift in favor of an old leathered book. The neighbors were just like their houses, which were all the same. Same squared four-bedroom home with a chimney, and red picket fences, except every other. It just rotated the same five colors. What is free will exactly? At the time I remember hating where we lived. I especially disliked my neighbors. Not them personally, but it was rather they all seemed the same. So, that day when my mom stated, with a judging, and flushed shrill, ‘Why can’t you just play like everyone else? You are sticking out, and the neighbors…’ as she pursed her lips, grabbed her pearls around her neck, like a Catholic Sadomasochist had walked in, and looked around to confirm we were alone, ‘well they are starting to talk. I just know it. Stop acting so lost.’”

Don’t cry. “I didn’t fully understand the concept of being lost just yet, but I knew I had let my mother down, and for some odd reason she, my father, and my books were my only friends then. My father found me crying in my room later. My tears had stained the leather binding, ‘I am sorry she said those things to you. But she just isn’t having a good day. It’s not your fault. She just isn’t herself anymore. She loves you, and I love you too.’”

“So, she wasn’t right by you or herself was she?” Mo stated with deep thought.

“No, she was not balanced, or something. It was like she lived by what everyone else thought and acted. Like she didn’t care except for her status. I remembered knowing my father was right, and also knowing I had to be the bigger person.” Which is probably why I still hide my true feelings. Behind my facade of perfection. “But she made for the perfect preacher’s wife.”

As Mo smiled, acknowledging I was shifting conversations with my attempt at humor, I took a huge gulp of wine. I realized how much the alcohol was me not wanting to see my own heart and soul.

“I know they loved you very much.” Mo said, bringing me back to the Greek cafe reality. “I know this, because you are a good man, and good men are only made by parents who love them. But parents are flawed people too. There is nothing more to say about the hurts of the past.”

“Thank you Mo. I can only imagine how good your son is.”

Mo laughed, a laugh that suggested his son was going to be fine, but was going through a phase, “He is a good man, but hasn’t found his meaning yet. Like you!”

“So, what is your meaning?” I threw back at him with a jest of intrigue.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that. It is my secret,” putting his pointed finger to his nose, and winking like Santa, “And even if I told you it wouldn’t help. This is my life not yours.”

“I just wish finding my purpose was easier. You know, like when I was born I came with instructions as to how to assemble myself properly.”

“First your outlook is all wrong. There is no purpose, because you only find your purpose over the accumulation of life.” Mo said with a Buddha laughter, “Live each moment in its present time, and to its fullest to reach a great purpose.” There is no purpose? Does anything exist? I am told there is no money, no time, and now no purpose. How much of this life have I misunderstood? It is as if I built up a reality, and was so blind to the possibility of other truths in the world. “I know I am old,” Mo continued, “I know all I have now is this cafe, my wife, my family, and my soul.” After that I don’t care.” And, as if she heard herself being mentioned, Helena sat gracefully down resting her face on her elbow propped hand. “Oh Helena, my Aphrodite. I was just talking about you!”

“You better be glad it was your day off, because we had many customers today.” Shifting her stern, business talk, demeanor to a lovable imp she focused now on me. “So America, you enjoy your food? You move to Greece now? I have a neighbor who speaks perfect English…”

Mo cut her off, “No Helena, America is not here for love, but for love lost, and a soul to gain.” It was as if she knew what he meant as she nodded her head at me with an admiring serenity. Soon the minutes turned to hours. As the cafe lights were turned off, I realized it was almost one in the morning. My mind had been overwhelmed by the haze of Dionysus.

“Mo, it is late, and I may, or may not, be a little drunk.” I stammered sarcastically. Mo looked at Helena as they danced in the middle of the street. They had been dancing for a while now, staring into each other's eyes like virgin teenagers, and tonight was going to be their first time.

“Okay my friend, it is your life.” Mo said staggering back to the table. “But I know I will see you again. I never leave this place.” Mo laughed, content with his own life. I smiled, and started to pull out my wallet, at which time Mo shook his hand at me, “Tonight, your money is no good.”

“Oh but Mo this was a lot of food, and A LOT of wine.”

“Yes, but you already paid me.”

“How?”

“With your stories, and dreams. I got to live like a young American listening to your stories. You made me a very happy old man.” As I stood up, regained my balance, Mo came over and gave me a big bear hug. At which point Helena came over, and hugged us both. We stood there in embrace for a few moments showing respect for each other. As we broke apart Mo’s hands rested on my shoulders, and he looked at me. “Now I have one more treat for you. Tomorrow my son will pick you up in front of your apartment, and show you Athens.”

“Oh Mo that is just too much. You don’t have…”

Cutting me off with a stern, father knows best gaze, Mo continued, “His name is Apo, and he will be waiting for you at noon tomorrow. Look at it as a gift from my life to your journey.” Waving good bye, I started walking back to the apartment. As I grabbed an orange for the morning I realized I hadn’t even gone half a mile before meeting Mo. As I got into the elevator I rested against the wall with a smile. “Thank you, dad. I know you planned that.”

---

Jet lag attacked again. This time only a few hours later from when I left Mo’s café. I awoke to the melodies of a growling stomach, and the throbbing head of a drunk. Sitting up, and counting on my fingers, I processed that my body was waking up for dinner. How could I be so hungry when I just ate for four hours straight? My body was adhering to a different time than my existence, and it was an odd oscillation between my old self and the new self. Scratching my head with a paralleled yawn, I made my way to the kitchen. I found the makings for a wine party as I unwrapped some gouda and crackers, uncorked a ‘hair of the dog’ chardonnay, and made my way to the balcony. The silence of the night was disturbed by the intermittent bursts of those sick with drunken buffoonery, and waves hitting the shores. After half a wheel of cheese, and a brimming glass of wine I decided to take advantage of my bodies unfamiliarity with the new placement of the sun. I put the urn, the bottle of wine, and two coffee mugs in my bag, right before I trounced my way down to the beach. There was no one around, as my feet slipped into the silky sands.

Watching the waves sneak attack on the defenseless shore, and the moonlight reflecting on the water, like a doting god, I pulled out my father’s urn, and nuzzled it into the sand next to me. As I poured our celebratory wine into the mugs, I began to speak with the urn, which had anthropomorphized into my father, “Well, dad we made it. I know you are so happy to see these shores. I’ve only been here for a couple of days, and my whole world has been turned upside down. I thought our way of life was how everyone did things. But the moment I stepped off that plane, I could smell history. I could feel the heartbeat of so many stories, and lifetimes.” The slow steady breeze let me feel my father’s presence, “I thought I was so important, so valuable that I forgot to realize how I’m just playing a part.” Grabbing a hand of sand, “I am just like a grain of sand in the story of humanity. I am important, but only for making the beach, not on my own.” I released the sand to the wind, no doubt settling at another place on the beach to start a new life. “Thank you for always being my conscience, always being my rock, and always showing me love. But, I think I have to let you go now.” I can’t hold onto the past like this. It’s like I’m trying to move forward with boulders tied to my ankles. Father will guide me, but I have to do this on my own now, because I am on my own now. Unscrewing the urn, tears began to escape the strong walls I had put up. I realized I hadn’t said a good bye yet, that I had just kept moving, and never found the silence to mourn. As I slowly released the ash, like I did the sand, I cheered, and clinked our mugs, “Here’s to you, dad. Here’s to your next life, and here’s to you bringing this beach, and the people who visit it, as much love, and care that you gave me.” Wiping my tears, which were not sad but happy, I chugged the remains of my wine, and laid back with my hands intertwined holding my head. I stared at stars I had never seen before. It was a calming moment as the breeze stopped, and the air was still. My father was physically gone, but it's the memories which live on forever. Not the person. His soul is my soul, and I will only keep the good memories.

Before I knew it I was awoken by a wetness on my face, my eyes were crusted over, but my mind became alert enough to recall moments I had experienced this wetness before. It was a lick, and judging from the height it was most likely, “Hey little doggie!” I said sitting up, and ruffling the ears of a brown, gleeful dog, looking to be loved. Like all of us. He started to jump around, begging me to chase him until he found my father’s mug, started to sniff, and lick up the wine. His face winced, as I laughed at the thought of me getting a dog drunk. I proceeded to stand up, stretch, and playfully chase my new friend. Now my body was alert, and I remembered I had plans today, looking at my watch, I panicked. It was 11:30 already! I had 30 minutes until Apo was picking me up. So I guess time does exist. Well at least for functionality sake. Grabbing everything, and speeding back to the apartment I could have sworn I passed the same elderly, hobbling woman in black, and the father, red swim suited, son duo. Bursting into the apartment, I had a few minutes to clean myself up. Holding the toothbrush by my teeth, as it foamed with minty bubbles, I splashed water onto my face, brushed back my hair, spit and rinsed, and then spritzed to cover any lingering booze emanating from my pores. Buttoning my shirt, and tripping over my foot, which wasn't fitting into my shoe just yet, I looked over the balcony for Apo. I saw a green moped, and a skinny, but healthy, man, with long, curly, brown locks tied up in a bun, with the purposed unshaven look. He wore a white linen shirt with blue caprice, and bright red flip flops. In other words, a hippie for the American observer. “Apo?” I yelled down, hoping it was him. He instantly responded to the name, looked up, blocked the sun with his right hand, and waved the left while demonstrating a spectacular set of ivories. “Yes, okay. I will be right down. Sorry.” Completing my assembly, I grabbed my bag, and rushed down the stair with complete tardiness embarrassment. Running to the man, and his moped, “I am so sorry, Apo, for being late. I just…”

“Don’t worry my friend.” Apo said with a relaxed, nonchalant, tone, “We have nowhere to be, but tomorrow, and that is too far away to care about.” His English was perfect, “So I see you met my father?” Apo asked while opening his arms, and moving forward expecting a hug, of which I complied patting his back, like humans do when they’re required to embrace strangers.

“Yes!” I said, separating from his body as quickly as I found it. “He has made me want to move here. And your mother sure can cook.”

“Oh don’t I know it. She gets mad at me, because I don’t weigh more.” Apo said patting his lean frame. “But I keep telling her the ladies do not like a fat man like they used to.” I enjoyed his matter of fact demeanor, and knew I could take a breath and enjoy the day. “So I was told I must show you the real Athens, not the…”, deepening his voice, and mimicking his father’s accent, and rotund disposition, “tourist traps where Americans see in the movies.”

“I guess that sounds about right.”

“Well hop on!” Apo stated while mounting the moped, and extending a yellow helmet to me. After fumbling for a few seconds while trying to find the front side of the helmet, I finally jumped on. He kicked started the little moped, which started with the roaring rage of a baby lion. We were off, leaving only dust, and the past, behind us.

Less Motion and More Life

As we sped, against the wind, along a busy freeway, the cars seemed to move slower than the tank cars of America. They don't’ seem to be rushed, frantic, or ‘late’, like back home. As we darted past an ant of a car, the woman inside seemed to have been poured into the driver seat. With her sausage arms, hunched over chin, which almost touched the steering wheel. But what would have been discomfort for me, seemed to not phase her as she smiled exuding a gleeful awareness. She was serene as the backdrop of hills, dotted with sheep, and antiquity, made her presence so miniscule. It was as if she understood the blessing of living amongst human history, and honored to have been granted the opportunity to experience this timeless tale. She didn’t seem bothered by her small significance, and that was the same comfort I sensed in the aura of my moped driver, Apo. He didn't talk much, and seemed to take in deep breaths, like he was breathing in the sun. I could have been there, or not, and this moment would still be as mesmerizing for him. Seeing him, and his present contentedness, reminded me of a person getting gifts on their birthday. As we started to pull into Athens, I told my father how I hoped he would provide me with Apo’s timeless appreciation of the now.

Passing the blend of modern, and ruins, I could touch, taste, feel, smell, and hear, all those who had walked these same, multicolored, cobbled streets. There was an old church like structure wrapped by a wall protecting it from the influence of modernity, as was obvious by the two Starbucks, four ATMs, and a posh clothing store which hovered over the church like the ghost of things to come. We started to go up a hill, and I could put my observed images as indicating, Apo was weaving towards the towering Parthenon. The place in my literal, and figurative dreams. My heart started to pound with anticipation as we slowed down near its gated entrance, as a dog chased, and bit at our wheel. My beach buddy.

“Welcome to the birthplace of free will, and human ingenuity.” Apo said, beaming, and stretching out his hands, as if displaying the length of a fish he caught. As we bought our tickets, we started our ascent towards the hill topped temple. “This is one of the first theaters.” Apo stated, as he forced me to stop, and look towards our right. If he hadn’t stopped me, I wouldn't have even seen it. Maybe Mo was right, I was so excited about what I was about to see, I neglected to see what was right there already. I turned to face the broken, dilapidated Amphitheatre, whose circus tent shape was carved into the mountain’s ground. The chipped pillars were covered with inscriptions of a life, society, and pleasures, carved by humanity's founders. This was once modernity too. “Can you just imagine what it was like back then? To come, and take your family out on the town to see the newest tragedy that the city newsp…uh… tablet...was raving about?” Apo snickered, as if he was amused by his own comedic timing. Only seeing rock, and deformed lines, I squinted to create the world of Apo’s imagination. “Okay, breathe deep. You are thinking too hard. Let your mind wander into history.” Apo said, clearly realizing my mind. Closing my eyes, I started to smell fire, hear the laughter of devoted mothers, and dragging feet. Clinking cups. Resonating laughter. Now there were a multitude of jubilant children and wise men. I opened my eyes and saw the past as my present. Just like I had done only a few weeks ago, standing motionless in my living room.

The day was night, sprinkled with stars, like the ones I stared at in my youth. The theatre was packed with people of all walks of life, jostling around to find a seat, as the actors, masked in exaggerated human emotions, began to take the stage. It was breathtaking. I had made the past come to life. It wasn’t reality but it could have been, so no one can say I am a fool for seeing it this way, my way. “Yes, now you see. Come let us get to the top. Have an olive!” Apo picked an olive from the trees, which lined the path towards the top. Just like the orange, it's salty flesh felt like mother nature had given this little olive just a little more love. After displaying my need for more cardio exercise, with my ever increasing heavy breathing, we finally made it as we entered a sea of suntan lotion layered, safari hat wearing, camera clicking tourists. At first, I was amazed by the variety of the human species. There were black women dressed like African royalty, a Japanese woman with a hello kitty fisherman hat, and a breathing mask, and an American whose fanny pack, dad jeans, and white tennis shoes screamed Midwest. It is funny how our culture demonstrates itself with our outward appearances, and fashion sense. But the best part was that although we were a cramped sardine can of people, drifting towards the perched antiquity, I felt that I was alone, it was silent, and the moment was only mine to experience. “I will stay here, and wait.” Apo stated, pulling out his phone from a hidden shirt pocket, “I need to make a phone call.” Nodding with a distracted acknowledgement, I memorized his location, and returned to the sea of pilgrims.

Reaching the top, I saw my dream. The very hill top I had dreamed was this very one, I could see my father, and Kronos. Reconstructing the Parthenon’s past beauty with my imagination, I offered up a sacrifice to the gods with my acknowledgement of them, and upon completion I twirled to take a scenic mental picture of the great city-state of Athens. It truly was awe inspiring, timeless, and motionless. The breeze picked up, and I realized how juvenile I was to believe myself so important, and unique. Looking down I felt the embodiment of all the rebellious youth, the great thinkers, and the eccentric artists, who stood in this same spot looking for answers, looking for destiny to find us. I didn’t own this spot. I didn’t own anything but this moment, and I was the only person to have it.

Looking out, I began to think about who owns anything. I mean these homes have been here for centuries, and yet they are still owned by someone. How could this be? What does it mean to own something? Well, one has worked hard, and with the money earned, one can buy homes, food, entertainment, means of travel, and so on. Owning takes root in our need to maintain a way in which to sustain our life. There is a base of sustenance a human being needs. We need shelter, food, and water, a self-sustaining means to grow, or produce, these necessary human requirements. There is a baseline of need, and then there is a surplus of want. To be afforded the chance to own the means for our basic needs is a great advancement for human’s survival. Yet, how is it that some own much, while others own very little, if anything at all? My father’s answers were carried by the breeze. As the cool winds filled my lungs with an inhale, my father’s words became my answers as well.

It is, because there is no natural way of ownership. When we are born into this world we are not provided a home, a farm, or tools for cultivation, or defense, because they do not exist in the natural world. We, as a species, have created these tools to promote our individual, and communal survival, out of the resources nature has afforded us. It cannot be assumed, every human being born today, will ever own anything, because nothing can be owned absolutely. It is a collective pool of land, and resources, which have been parceled, controlled, and owned by human societies who think they lay claim to it. Nature does not afford the notion of ownership, because it cannot function under such, non-absolutist, or non-material, assumptions. To own something means nothing to nature. It is simply a flawed presumption to believe you own a house, land, or crops. Yes, you may have built your home on land you purchased from a real estate company. But who gave that company the land? Those, in the past, who claimed unsettled lands as their own, now have passed their false claim of ownership down to you. Then who, over the lands existence, can lay a legitimate claim of its absolute ownership?

Who lived on the land in the past, and who will live on the land in the future? Surely, they too will claim the land as under their ownership. So then whose claim is valid? Many people will respond that they all own the land, because it is during different times. Yet, in truth, the question is flawed, because of the absolute nature of the word ownership. None of the past, present, and future, owners can absolutely own the land. Each of the three owners are simply adhering to implemented borders, drawn by map makers, conquerors and expanding nations. For when you go to the edge of someone’s land, and look out as far as the eye can see, you do not see a natural division. No, the land continues on, and your ability to cross over into the land is easily done, minus built, or natural deterrents. This is because the infinite reality of our earth, and the universe does not hold the notion of ownership as valid, because it is only a concept developed in the minds of humans, whereas, to create a functioning community. Ownership does not exist in a natural state. Therefore, it is meaningless to find self-validation from the things one owns.

Ownership gives us a false sense of entitlement, and there is nothing on this earth that we are actually entitled to. Instead, we have had to develop a system for sustaining the unnatural, non-material concepts, founded in our history’s existence. I will now call this system our nurtured society. It is in our nurtured society, being the construct of humanity, which has indoctrinated us to truly believe we are entitled to things. Think about ownership the next time you say the word mine.

---

Awaiting my introspection to end, I started looking more at myself, rather than constantly blaming the world for my hardships. It’s not their fault, I was the fool for actually believing I was entitled to anything. Own your present. Why was I even here; what exactly am I looking for? What am I missing? Now I feel constantly frustrated. I no longer know what is real. I can see how people may think society is unnatural. But it exists, and I have to live in it. I'm a nomad within my own tribe. I feel as though I’m on the right path, and then a new observed truth makes me lost again. I’m surrounded by truth but I’m either blind to its full form, or my emotions keep me caged up from the freedom of natural reality. Everyone is caught in their own emotional prison. I feel like I have the key, but can’t seem to find the lock. It seems I’m still stuck in my own mind’s quicksand. I started to actually visualize my dichotic thinking. The first way of thinking comes from my mind, and it is the only thing which holds my personal truths. The second way of thinking is the rules of the world around me. There, my thoughts are on my responses to the actions of all living things. Starting my return to Athens below, I realized with a great clarity, that there are only two, natural, realities; material reality, and perceived reality.

All these new concepts of ‘being’ made my brain throb, like a muscle being exercised. With the thoughts building up like lactic acid, my aware mental muscle awoke my subconscious soul. It transcended the material world reality, even though it made my knees wobbly. I am done here. My soul’s awareness has shed my emotional shell of superficiality. I am immortal in my mind. Making my way down to where I recalled Apo saying he would be, and there he was. Amongst the chaos of tourists, he was my point of order, and logic for my present moment. “Did you enjoy yourself? You must have been deep in thought, because it's been almost an hour.” Apo said, as if stating a fact, and not an emotional interpretation, or judgmental, critique.

“Yeah, the walls of my world are starting to crumble.”

“Like our Parthenon. Except ours was destroyed by fire and not passing of time.” Apo chuckled, with an amusement of how fast he saw the connection.

“Yeah, I guess this lifetime I have to deal with my own temples, and not fear foreign fire.”

“But just like the Parthenon, the idea is always built back up again. It just might not be in the same form as it once was. The Parthenon started as a temple to Athena, then it became a bank, a church, and a mosque. But it was at first an idea, and over time, no matter the form it took, it was still the same idea. We are trying to restore it, but, like our motherland, we have much work to do. I mean look at Greece! The bastion of western civilization, and our economy is near bankrupt, our government is weak, and corrupt. I hope our present predicament isn't a foreshadowing for the western world.” As he said that, I noticed how selfish I had been towards Greece. I hadn’t stopped to feel its pain. I was only willing to feel my own pain, my own regret, and deal with my own emotions. But Greece was just like my existence; we both had hit a breaking point. There was no stability, no safety net. We were both only confused, and frightened citizens of the human species. And just like every day, my mind was met with protest to my perceived reality. So too was the Greek government met with everyday barrages of civil protest, and unrest. We both are in a purgatory of possible outcomes, seemingly stuck on the merry-go-round of maintaining order when we see chaos approaching. Chaos is consumed by the gray haze of anonymity, and it yells in the language of frustration, as we prepare for either battle or friendship. My walls were crumbling, and it looked like chaos would overtake me in battle, or define the existence I sought. But for Greece, its city burned with the fire of emotional rage. Emotional rage burns blue, and when left to its own devices becomes difficult to control. When chaos reaches the walls of Greece, the flame will assess the hearts of the citizens hiding within. If their hearts are weak, turned against each other, it will burn the walls, and the city filled with its citizens, down to ash. I could sense difficult things to come. It was like I was inside the mind of an actual person. Countries, societies, and the like, are simply the greater expression of the individual. Its scale is just larger, and has greater responsibilities. But when a country is sick, all of its parts are sick. When you have a broken leg, your life, and what you are able to do, suffers as well.

“Well, I see I lost you again. Which is probably for the better, because I have to go and help a friend for just a few minutes. They’re staying right next to this great little Arab café. So maybe this'll give you time to rebuild your walls. Everyone needs a good introspective, writing session.” Apo said pointing to my bag which held my journal. How did he know that it was in there? “I’ll join you afterwards and we can have a few drinks, and some sheesha before nightfall. This café has the best mango sheesha this side of Cairo!” I welcomed the alone time to declutter my mind. We jumped back onto the moped, and before I knew it we were whizzing, frantically, through back roads and incongruent intersections. After only a few minutes of speeding we stopped, granted with the painful jolt of new brakes, in front of this quaint apartment building, with a facade of painted stones, and its ground floor was an open café. The tables were rickety, mismatched, plastic orbs, and the seats were filled with sterile eccentric characters. My imagination flashed like a camera shot, and the picture it produced was those characters as extras in a movie starring me as the brooding protagonist, and Apo, my goofy sidekick. Remember that snapshot forever, because it is true in the mind. And if it is true in one’s mind it is true, absolutely. There was a sense of frantic calm as the parishioners inhaled the intoxicating sheesha.

“If you sit down and order the sheesha, I’ll be back in a few. My friend needs help with their computer, or something to do with technology. They are just old, and technology mystifies them dreadfully so.” Apo patted me the shoulder, and seemingly lurched towards the back, where he disappeared behind two swinging wooden doors, to what looked like the entrance to another world.

Ordering our mango sheesha, I began to relax the constant tension I felt all over my body. As I took in my first puff, my mind when into a haze of Arab markets, and despotic caliphates. It is calm, sitting at a café in Athens, smoking sheesha, even though the sounds of a bustling city fill the air. Cheap American music consumed the café. The beat was monotonous, and sharp. I am at peace as my head swims with smoke, and dreams. The world is in constant motion. Billions of conversations to be had, money to be made, hours to be lost. It is a grid; a human pattern of conscience, and reason. Easily studied, manipulated, and mastered. Everyone trying to be unique, special, all the while acquiescing to social norms. Sitting here I can feel the pulse, the life blood, of a city, of a people. Contrived, obnoxious, scent of history, and pride. Everyone wanting more, to be more. Divided by money, ethnicity, fear, and past hates. Still holding on to the hopes of self-fulfillment.

A girl walked by. She had on too many silver bracelets, frumpy yellow skirt, and bouncy long brown hair. Her beauty alone made her stand out. Another voice in a sea of billions. Right now my world consists of thirty-five people, drinking beer and coffee. Smoking life away. For this moment is my present existence, a foreign face in a microcosm. This is my now. A gypsy band began to play a perfect, four-part, harmony, as the smallest of them held a cap pleading for a cent. Soon they will move on, taking their accordion, guitar, and clarinet with them, praying for someone with loose change. That is their now. Our lives had intersected with a brief musical cord.

---

The sun started to fade away, like my sheesha coals which had all but stopped generating smoke. A few minutes had come, and gone. My mind was no longer busy with such reality changing ideas. Surrendering to serenity I ordered more coals, and got the smoke to billow again. I finally heard the familiar voice of Apo. He was talking with an unknown other, and walking towards me. It’s funny how much we can see, without even seeing it. I turned to see Apo, who made eye contact with me, waved, and seemed to be preparing to introduce me to the other. The other’s mere presence was as intoxicating as the sheesha. She was a stately, older lady with purposed, whimsical, long gray hair, which perfectly matched her mother nature aesthetic. As she seemingly floated on a cloud towards me, with her hair dancing on the waves of wind, her aura was timeless tranquility. Yet, there was a hardness in thought. As she extended her hand, with a welcoming wink, I could feel her ‘with me or against me’ outlook on life. Like she had set her own rules of humanity’s functionality by the many of her observed tears, smiles, and miles traveled. I could tell she wasn’t absolute about it. She was just too hurt, too many times, to consider the gray areas of common folk. She was very uncommon for sure, because most humans use emotions to define, and antagonize the world around them. Most of the defined emotions we, the individual, hold are a result of the many years we’ve been, something my father called, a survivalist. A survivalist uses feelings, memories, and interactions as a tool to define any present, or future, material threats. Now, we have mastered most of the observable threats of our material world. We maintain our survivalist nature by defining non-material threats, absolutely. But just like emotions, which are the creation of memories found in the mind, they hold no absolute form. They may be absolute in the individual mind, but not so in any material form. As for this very real mother figure standing in front of me, it seemed she held control over her emotions, and used them as fuel to eliminate fear, rather than its perpetuation, like most of us do. She was free from her subconscious autopilot.

Her hands were soft, but I could actually feel the wrinkles; they were deep, spreading over many lifetimes. I think I have met her in one, or all, of those lifetimes. It seems like I’ve known her a thousand times over, and we always meet. Linking our eye focus, we silently spoke. I knew why she was here. She knew why I was here. We recognized the other, and with a nod, wished the other great success on their quest. “Hello, my name is Sarah,” she said, with an aristocratic British accent. Her tone indicated she felt the same constant connection. “I apologize for keeping your tour guide so long. I’m old in body, and mind, and I can never seem to get my printer to work right. I swear Apo is the only dear friend who is secretly a technology whisperer. He touches it, and it works!” She said, tapping his back with love, and appreciation, while joking with me to convey her sincerest sorry for intruding into our day. It was very clear she was not one to lie. But she certainly would kill for those she loved, as seen by how she touched Apo, and would even die in a blaze of gunfire for her ideas. Who is this woman? More like what is this woman? I have to know what makes her tick, what makes her fight, and what makes her… well… her.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I grin with a subservient inflection, “and do not even worry about it. I have been enjoying watching people.” Now it was almost on the verge of that moment when you can sense a lull in conversation. Clearly Apo could sense it too.

“Glad you had fun. This place has a habit of making people addicted to being here. Sarah was just reminding me that we met each other here.” Apo, seeing into the future of his story, secretly smiled, “She saw my copy of 100 Years of Solitude, and with no introduction, but the thud of her huge bag on the table, we started a conversation about life, and it hasn’t stopped since.” Sarah seemed familiar with hearing this story about her, and not just from Apo.

“It has been my honor. Apo, can I buy you both a drink? That is if you are fine with that.” Sarah smiled at me; she knew I did. She could see my mind halted, while racing at the same time. So many questions floated around my body, like a mosquito buzzing around a bug zapper.

“I would be honored. Especially if there is a free drink involved.” We all fake laughed at my cheesy attempt at making myself approachable. Sarah deferred the seating decision to Apo, who guided us to a secluded booth next to a very busy kiosk, where the owner seemed to pull out an infinite amount of gyros from a very small yellow box.

Upon ordering a few rounds of ouzo, the conversation had passed the introductory phase. We transitioned past the fun phase, and quickly found ourselves in a deeply philosophical, and exhilarating discussion about it all. It was all based on why Sarah was currently in Athens. She had returned from a trip in Africa where, stationed at a medical facility, she had managed to slip under the hospital, and watched, as what can only be considered a slaughter of the innocent. She tearfully held back her feelings of helplessness. Helpless as she told us about how she could not protect a particular girl. A girl, who just the day before came to the hospital with nearly fatal pneumonia, was now being riddled by bullets as she ran from the invading officers. Helpless, because, as Sarah explained with a tinge of regret, she lost all control of her body, which seemed frozen with fear. More frozen helplessness as an officer, not much older than sixteen, dragged a volunteering local doctor by his arm, practically in front of Sarah’s hiding space. Sarah expressed how humbled she was by mortality as she was hidden from death’s grasp by a false wall of spiders, crumbling floor boards, and the natural camouflage of mud and stairs. Looking through the slanted stairs, Sarah told us how she screamed inside as she saw in horror the man on his knees, gun pointed to his head, as he tearfully pleaded with God for a more time. Then bang. As the story stopped I saw Sarah’s eyes drooped with thought, as she seemed emotionally exhausted from reliving it all. Bad emotional memories have a tendency to throw the happiest of humans down into the pit of depression. Sarah went quiet, and ran into her mind’s safe place. She started to mumble, loud enough, because she wanted us to hear her thoughts, “A government. A government did this to their own people.” Shaking her head in shame, and taking back another ouzo shot from another round, which had mysteriously appeared on the table. “What have we done to ourselves?” She wasn’t emotionally injured by what she recalled, she seemed injured by the pain of those who died. It seems that controlling one’s emotions leads to greater empathy. I could tell she had seen the emotional trauma of death many times over, and was immune from carrying its weight personally. Often we personalize external macabre moments of humanity’s hubris, and let it define our outlook, instead of putting it in its proper existence, in the past. No, she was traumatized for another reason. She cried, because of the blood that humanity was spilling at a more rapid rate recently.

Apo and I gave her a few moments of silent reflection, as we shuffled the coals on the sheesha to find new pockets of flavor. Finding that pocket, after enough time had passed, I commenced my ‘Sarah, get well’ tour, “I am so sorry you had to witness something so gruesome, so senseless, and so… well… I don’t think I have your strength.”

Sarah humbly smiled at my odd compliment. “It’s no longer about me being an individual, pursuing my individual desires. I am a human first, and a mortal second. I am simply an idea, and not unique.

“What’s the idea?” While the unfiltered question flowed out of my intrigued lips Apo responded before Sarah.

“It is why she is here in Athens, to spread the idea.” I couldn’t tell if Apo was covering for her, or was completely enjoying the presence of the silo of maternal wisdom in front of him. “Her idea is one I am finally starting to understand. You see, I am not much into politics, and I know I will never be as passionate as Sarah. But what I can’t stand is seeing my family, friends, and neighbors crying themselves to sleep, worrying about how they will have enough money to simply survive. All that, while our government has sold our souls, with a clink of celebratory champagne, to foreign banks just to fill another hole in the sinking ship. We starve, and they get to keep acting like everything's fine. Well, it’s not! The Greek people are sinking into oblivion at the hands of our own people.” While he was speaking, his words became no longer directed towards us, and shifted to what seemed to be him, convincing himself he was right. It seemed he was much happier keeping his head down, living in the moment of then mantra ‘work hard and play hard’. Yet sadly, sometimes, it seems there is a threshold where there are far too many problems to ignore. Usually, and embarrassingly, for our species, we don’t want to see the problem, because that means more work to resolve an issue that isn’t our own. But there comes a moment when, because of us ignoring the problem, it grows, and spread so far it knocks on our door, invades our towns, or strolls our streets. All of a sudden we care, and become vainly vocal. Why are we so indifferent to the pain of others, but scream for justice, and demand other’s acknowledgement of our struggle? That’s funny, we perpetuate the same careless, superficially motivated, compassion for humanity’s hurt.

Apo was still staring off at the passersby parade, as if collecting their pained faces, as evidence for his recent revolutionary enraged rallying cry. “I’m sorry. I’m not one for going off like that. But hearing Sarah’s stories, and just opening my eyes, I am just now, finally seeing the sadness I ignored, hidden behind their talk of weather, gossip, and family. Thank you, Sarah, for opening my eyes.” Apo grabbed for her hand as if she was his A.A. sponsor. And Sarah was that sponsor who had helped so many, and Apo’s gratitude was just another thank you for getting him through the detox. That certainly is a great feeling of elated success in self, and life. I know, because I danced with that demon already. But there was a sense that, although Apo had gotten passed detox with Sarah’s help, Sarah was hiding the fact she never had been drunk, or cared for drinking, and that she was doing this for something else. Whatever that ‘else’ is, I can probably find. It's not just the idea Sarah claims to embody. It's the essence of her existence. Sarah was truly moved, her nose twitched as she held down, and halted a sneeze, “Apo, you were just helping a friend who talks far too seriously, and that’s why I asked you that question. You heard what you needed, and wanted to hear in that question.” They fumbled to finish their unintentional conversation, which had evolved from idealism to existentialism. I did still want to know Sarah’s idea, and I wanted to know what was the question she offered to Apo, like it was a golden honey. I will figure out Sarah, but the question I knew I would not. I could sense it was only meant for their story. I was just a supporting character; you know… the one character that asks dumb questions so the author can convey their ideas to readers.

“So what do you think of America, my new friend?” Sarah asked me. She was clearly diverting the attention away from her, and fishing to start a new conversation, with me as a potential new believer. I’ll bite. I need some answers anyway. As she inquisitively smiled, I knew she would lead me down the right path because I could feel her. Her story, our past interactions, her trials, and tribulations, our laughter, and our tears. Sometimes we experience a flash of a past self we never knew existed. Our awareness of it doesn’t linger for long, and it never sticks around; it just is.

Accepting the rules of agreement for changing conversation, “You planning to go to America after Greece?” I said in reference to her roaming gypsy, revolutionary, lifestyle.

“If that is where I am needed. Hence, why I want to ask the American.” Winningly, Sarah continued at first in jest, “Gather intel before I philosophically invade your shores.” Apo seemed relieved his day in the sun was over. He sat back holding his ouzo in limbo, elbows up, and thumbs paralleling the rim. My gaze was returned to Sarah as she lurched forward, with the vigor of a vacuum, snatching up her ouzo with a gigantic gulp, palms slammed the table, and looked at me with jovial, but genuinely interested, “So, what say you?”

“Well, I’ll be honest with you all. Back home I am a journalist. I write about local, and national, politics. So I guess I’m technically an American propagandist.” As I said this, mocking myself with a shrug, followed by a lip flip, both Apo and Sarah looked at one another as if to speak to the other with their eyes, they simultaneously broke out into a deep joyous laugh. I think they laughed because they could finally see my true nature. “Yeah, it is funny, cause I’m really just like Apo. I did it cause my dad, well, anyway, I review local ordinance pieces. But I mostly balk at the partisan banter of American politics.” Their laughs decrescendo to inquisitive silence. Listening faces are set, I can continue. “Thinking about it, I never felt a part of my government, but just a visiting observer. America is a strange world of moral absolutism, and pandering, emotion based, pleas. It's less a government, and more like … uuh…. What was this emotion called? Oh, it's as painful as… a popularity contest.”

Sarah seemed amused. “How so?” She had seemed more interested in my logical assessment of the functionality of governance, but instead, she got my raw guttural reaction, and that’s not even the best part. The best part was, I didn’t plan to say it to look smart, like I did before; it simply rolled out, like the thought was connected to the body. Simple Unity.

“Well, all our politicians have perfect life stories, perfect families, and perfect teeth. They speak with scripts, written by another person with their own agenda. They see people as votes, and not humans. Here’s the best part, after all the vitrics of campaigns, and the fear mongering, ‘Armageddon is soon’ rhetoric… they get nothing done. AT ALL! We all see it as it is, they all want money. I guess they are just an expression of our population. Our society has told us that to be successful, by society’s standard, you must have money, or a lot of luck. It's like we are only a few years from the pain Apo is seeing here.” Having heard his name, Apo seemed ready to jump into the conversation again, but this time probably with less emotion, and with more facts. I was the one giving emotional interpretations now.

Now, with a jaded contentedness, “Yeah, it’s like either our governments know something we don’t, and are protecting us, or the pull of money is far too great.”

I jumped onto Apo’s rollercoaster of government vilification. I should know better at this point, but there is still an anger inside me. “The poor have to pay for their safety, and survive by any means necessary. It’s like we have taken out a loan on life, and… and…”

Hearing my thought stutter, Sarah said, “And someone is controlling it all, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Shaking her head in how frighteningly truthful our words felt like. Are we even playing our own game, or just playing one big game of snakes and ladders: socio-economic, inequality version? “It has somehow become the human disposition to struggle on a daily basis. Whether here in Athens, or in Africa, or in the United States. It might look differently, but it is the same worry, the same sadness. Same, same, but different.”

I could feel the Apo’s rollercoaster taking me to another awareness, “True, but I think I may be so angry at them is because I feel responsible. I feel like I purposely ignored the rest of the world’s problems. I’ve been just as bad as those who paint the world with false absolutes, fear all threats and motivated by a vain self. I have had such a privileged life, and I didn’t have the decency to help.”

“Well it’s hard to see when you are surrounded by a wall of nationalism, and materialism, built by selfish, and profiteers.”

“Those are strong words Sarah. America isn’t that bad. I may be pissed off at my government, but deep down I know America is a beautiful place, with such opportunity, and promise.”

“Yes, it is. But I wasn’t talking about America. I was talking about everywhere in time. I mean what even is nationality, government, and wealth? You both talk as if you still desire the things you bemoan. You are looking at the problem from the wrong outlook. You only keep seeing yourself as an outsider, observing a malfunctioning system.” Sarah seemed to have gone over our heads. She realizes this, and she readjusts her sitting position, takes a puff of her sheesha, and prepares to explain herself to her two pupils. We sat eagerly enthralled by her mind. I don’t know about Apo, but my understanding of reality is now shattered, and the shards are the thoughts, and ideas floating around my head. I’ll listen to anyone, so I can finally reassemble my life’s truths.

“Your outlook only considered your observed reality.” Sarah said, with a face that expressed no emotion, “You forget, as most humans do, that you cannot observe the machine from the out looking on, to comprehend its full existence. You can’t see how the machine fully functions, even where it begins and ends, because you are a part of the machine.” That is why I am so very unware of who I am, because I had yet to see my existence as part of the actual machine of life. So why did life still hurt?

“It is an outlook which developed from the individual over the communal, because society allowed for the control of the material world. Inspired by the European Enlightenment, Western Civilization flourished with their great emphasize on the freedoms of our awareness of being a conscious, thinking, individual. Yet, something went dangerously wrong. By emphasizing so heavily the power on the individual consciousness our interest grew in the study of the mind. With ever increasing interest into the power of the mind, we applied logic of the observable forms of life and material we had already defined.”

“Wait, doesn’t all things we observed stored in the very thing we are attempting to understand?” I said, timidly sorry for breaking her presentation flow. The emotion Sarah gave me was not what I thought. She smiled. It was a smile so large it consumed my vision. I get it. It now felt as though we had rose into the clouds, motionless, and in observance of something which held no observable form.

Sarah returned us to our table and continued, “To answer your question. Yes, we use the brain to study the mind which is where we think our individual existence resides. Why do we do that? Well before I say, I used to tell this joke to mess with some of my spoiled students back in my academic days. ‘Do you think the only reason we believe our consciousness resides in the mind is because, for some evolutionary reason, we now rely more heavily on our eyes, conveniently located in front of the brain?’ Now, I don’t know the answer myself, because well that would mean I would have to be connected to the whole machine to observe its parts. But, oh, to watch those students sputter trying to apply reason and logic to understand a concept of the heart and soul!!

Stopping the light-heartened tone, Sarah returned to her emotionless face, “But to return to why we study something, with the same something as the means of measurement. Well, we have the rise of the individual over the communal to blame.”

“Individual? What you are suggesting I would consider greatly radical to my innocent American ears. I have individual rights, freedoms and a mind which I use to observe the absurd of life. I can’t just easily put it in some numb, communist box!”

Sarah, seemed now a little bothered. She saw me revert back to my old ways. “Who said anything of government? This is what often happens, to this kind of outlook. It thinks of itself, and all things which define and secure their existence, as the first and only priority. But, don’t worry if you don’t see it just yet. It can take a while.”

Embarrassed with not being wise enough to see the bigger picture of Sarah’s idea, I apologized. “Sorry, Sarah. Yeah, this trip has certainly been a very self-reflective time, and sometimes I can’t seem to logically think which side of the emotions, minds litter, I want to be.”

“Oh never you mind, I have decades on you. All you need is more motion, and less thinking.”

---

The conversation became a blur of intoxicated thoughts. Sarah and I continued in a Socratic seminar style about the individual’s responsibility, while Apo seemed lost in his own questions. We gave him the space he needed to process until, with a clearing of the throat, Apo informed of he was ready to return to the conversation. As we stopped speaking, focusing our eyes attention to him, I noticed how Apo seemed perplexed as he squished the skin between his eyebrows together in the natural human expression of confusion, “Sarah, if you know the truth of the machine, like let’s say in the form of a government, why do they not see it? I mean, if its truth shouldn’t it be just as obvious to them? Wouldn’t they want the change which brought the truth into our collective reality? I mean, governments know change happens organically. They know what people expect, or desire. The government's machine is made up of parts which includes the very people, like us, who are evolving to see the wizard behind curtain. So that should increase the machine's evolution as well.”

“Yes, I see your point. But let me ask you this, imagine if you had a perfect house, with a perfect family, and with no cares about financial stability. One day a person comes to your home, and declares that the way things were, which benefited you greatly, was going to change, because of a revolutionary technological advancement. Now you are faced with the prospects of losing your stability, and security. What do you do?”

“I want to say I would accept the change, but….” Apo stammered, as he realized he had to be honest with himself, whereas, for the conversation to work, “I would probably do everything in my power to keep my stability, even if that meant fighting against the implementation of the new advancement.”

Feeling as though she had broken down a huge wall, Sarah beamed, “Exactly. In our attempt to survive, we created a machine which works on the fumes of fear. Our emotional, individualistic, memory is reliable, a safe bet. From that outlook, everyone knows their opinions absolutely. Many of those who designed, and built our society, now greatly benefit from its design. So those with the greatest benefits want to maintain our society, while those of us who are seeing them machine from the outlook if its whole functionality has started to call out its faulty mechanics. I know I seek other, possibly, revolutionary, ways to redesign the future of humanity. But as you said earlier, even if society was reconfigured, meet the emotional demands of the individual’s survival, it will still, over time, become another dysfunctional hierarchy of the ‘us versus them’. That's why the answers are in the state of our collective soul, or humanity’s essence.”

“Wait, so I have defined, and limited my outlooks based on the mechanics of a dysfunctional machine which holds no natural power over me, but controls me?” Oh my gosh this is the same argument, and struggle for human societies since the first cities grew from the fertile crescent to the very city I am in now. Status quo tries to make the dangers, and fears of nature’s chaos, and evolutionary changes, static. For the society to work, it needs to be immobile, but we forget we can’t do that. Time, and space keeps things going, and those notions can’t be absolute. Nothing is real except for the person, and what they decide to do with each passing moment. Sarah, who must have answered my question when my mind roamed into clarity, because when I returned to the real world of conversation there was a content silence. The silence was a beautiful, expression of our belief altering acceptance. As we smiled in the glow of revelation the void was filled with the idle chatter, clanking of tea spoons, and bending of sheesha pipes which filled the air of the café around us. Even though I heard their motion, it was as if the entire café stood still in my mind as the world, I knew it to be, disappeared into the history books of humanity's evolutionary knowledge. I felt like the world grew, like I could see everything now. I wasn’t an American, I was a human, who happened to live within the laws of an American society. It wasn’t naturally there, and its existence wasn’t ordained by God. America, and any society for that matter, are simply an expression of where humans are in understanding the workings of nature’s chaos, and what it means to be a human being.

The silence was broken by Apo’s cell phone ringing, with what sounded like a very familiar show’s theme song. Apo must have been deep in thought, as well, because he jumped at first ring, banging his knees on the table. While rubbing his knee, and making that breathing in sound, between your teeth, when you hurt yourself, Apo got up from the table, and answered the phone out in the street. Sarah, got the check. Paid quickly, and smiled at me. We were done here for the day. She could tell my brain hurt, with all the thoughts, and ouzo. We both stood up to stretch, Sarah had one more thing to say, leaning in to whisper, “Sometimes the rules of law must be broken, for they exist to maintain the status quo. Yet after a period of time the status quo becomes the very problem, and must be changed.” That was her idea, maybe not today, but eventually, if she keeps inciting evolutionary changes, the machine will either become defunct all together, or perfectly tuned with the purr of egalitarianism. She doesn’t know how it all ends, but Sarah is convinced it takes revolution. Sarah is a revolutionary, an idealistic system usurper! But I agreed with a lot of what she said. Am I also a revolutionary? What has she done to me? I can’t be a sheep led to the slaughter anymore, I'm finally building the base of my being. Sarah’s intuition to pay the bill was spot-on. It was Apo’s mom calling him. He was late for the weekly family dinner, and we had to go. Saying our ‘for now’ good byes with hugs, Sarah handed me a napkin, which she had scribbled a few lines on. Before I could read it she started talking to both Apo, and myself. “Apo, bring our new friend with you to the rally in a few days. I think they need to see when ideas become actions. Apo nodded, after confirming with me through eye contact, if I would like that, which I quickly agreed. Getting back onto the back of the moped, I pulled out the napkin. Before we were on the road again, and heading home, I had enough time to make out the words: Complacency and ignorance are the siblings of tyranny.

Revolution of Less Motion

We sped home at a speed which justifies why we have speed limits. The wind was hitting us so hard it felt like a slap to the face from a jilted lover. I squeezed tightly onto Apo, which I could hear him giggle at the fear in my grip. Clearly, Apo was very late, and was willing to risk life, and limb, to make his family happy. Family is weird like that, you can get annoyed, and frustrated to the point of resenting the air they breathe, with the prayers of, ‘I hope I’m never like that!’, but all you really want is to make them proud of you. During a rushed goodbye Apo told me he will stop by tomorrow to figure out when we will go to the rally. My mind was putty, all the notions, and interpretations of how my world worked, were now under intense interrogation. As I finally plumped down on my favorite balcony chair, I realized it was like every border of universal existence was expanding to the point of nonexistence. This place of uncertainty, matched with the dark void of a purposeless soul, made for anything to be real. That something could happen at any moment, which could rock my foundation, and that of the world around me.

Sipping my tea, and observing the sun setting on the now calming waves, I began to think about what it meant to be an American. I was always patriotic, and would have died for my country, before Sarah planted the seed of doubt into my mind. But our government is the template for all of democratic societies. It is a government of the people, and by the people. But digging beneath the veneer of superficial idealism, I could see that we were just as lost as Greece. Just as segregated amongst the lines of hierarchical governing, where the status quo of campaign rhetoric, and political blow hard bureaucrats fed the benefiters, and starved those who weren’t within the system. But isn’t that what a government is supposed to do? Keep the peace, by providing security, and stability for its citizens? That requires a bureaucratic routine of doing things. Grabbing the Ikea decorative dictionary off the coffee table, I looked up the accepted definition for government. I found that government is defined as, “the form or system of rule by which a state, community, etc., is governed.” Humans, as a species, equate a civilized society with the presence of a stable, and fair, form of governance. We believe that for a society to function we need a functioning, incorruptible, government. Most of us live, and die, by the rules of our government. No matter the form of government we are citizens of, we were led to believe, that a government holds the ultimate power over our society. The laws are absolute, the government monitors, and protects its citizens, and has sovereignty over how we can, or cannot live our life. An ancestor agreed upon social contract or, in contemporary sense, a government is simply attempting to modernize antiquated status quo consensus for people who are long gone.

Our entire recorded history speaks to the evolution of the many forms of governing our societies we have experimented with. An Egyptian believed the Pharaoh was a God, and his words were final. A young Native American believed his wise elders were best suited to govern the tribe. A blacksmith in the medieval ages believed he was governed by God via the Catholic Church. A Chinese woman believed her nation’s future was a communist future. We have vilified forms of governments we believe counter to our way of life. The spread of communism in southeast Asia was an enemy to democracy. Monarchy was the enemy to the Bolshevik socialist. Dictatorships, and military juntas are at odds with the values of a free western society. So many of us identify, and proselytize the merits of our society’s form of government, even going as far as waging wars to promote their national ideals. Our government becomes the parameters of a societal existence, and many cannot see past the confines of the law. Yet, is government a natural way of order? Is it inevitable for a community to create a government? What form of government is the best, and most natural? I mean, if we know many forms of governments are flawed, possibly corruptible, and malleable to the whims of passion, evolution, and people, can’t we create a way to govern which no longer adheres to the reactionary machine of an orderly status quo, and instead embraces the good change chaos offers?

These thoughts were going so fast through my mind I felt extremely weak. My body started to weigh more, and as did my eyelids as they slipped slowly down. I faded into the nape of nap time, as I felt my mind take a sigh of relief for a few minutes of inactivity. But just as quickly as sleep thrust me into darkness, the memories sent me back to the land of dreams. I notice I’m wearing a purple robe finally, as I’m evidently late for something, as I run, out of breath, up a mountain, to what I now can make out to be the Parthenon again. Slipping, and grabbing a rock to stop my impending rolling down the hill, which woke me a little, to feel my legs kicking, and then when I returned I stood at the top. The Parthenon had been rebuilt, but this time it was the embodiment of beauty. People were worshiping the God inside, but it was not one from Mount Olympus, in fact, the God seemed humble, and upon closer inspection, resembled me, but it also seemed to be the elderly lady who grabs oranges from the trees, who is prostrating herself to the power of the chiseled marble being in front of her. She pulls out orange after orange from her pockets, gets up, looks at me, and with a toothless grin, says something in a language unknown to my ear, as she points at me, herself, and the statue. She rolls an orange at me, and when I assume my standing position, after picking up the rolling nectarine, it transforms into a mango right before my eyes. It is expanding, and morphing, like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly. Then it started to shrink, so quickly, and so tiny, that at first I thought I was the one growing instead of it disappearing which it did just in time to hear the booming, gleeful voice of my dad. “Oh, thank God, you made it. It's all just about to start. Hurry, you won’t want to miss this. He wore a yellow toga, and as I looked at him, he seemed to be aging, and getting younger, at the same time. He grabbed my hand, and excited, pulled me towards a crowd of people mesmerized by a few men on top of a rusty colored rock, and the scent of jasmine.

“What’s going on?” I asked to which my dad replied, “The day we’ve been waiting for. The greatest minds discussing their findings on humanity. We can finally hear the answers to our problems of woe, and fear; the words which will melt the cage, which keeps our soul, and societies freedoms. People, seeing his yellow toga, and recognizing his ageless face, moved out of our way until we were so closely seated to the rock, I could see the wise men’s every facial tick. One was turned from me, with a color I had never seen, nor even knew about. But it was so beautiful- it moved with the wind; it altered its patterned appearance, and mesmerized my insatiable thirst for knowledge. He turned around, and once the breeze had released his beard whereas to rest I saw it was Kronos again. Now my dad had joined him on the rock, toga was now the same color of Krono’s, and now sitting next to me was Apo, and Mo. Greeting them, I understood now, the world of my memories, and how it dreams to organize my thoughts, and beliefs. This was what my mind looked like. “You have a mind never seen by humanity. Yet you have squandered it on the superficial monotony of pleasing everyone else but yourself, limiting its growth by the walls of morality, and the vain pursuit of physical beauty.” The hushed voice which came from behind my ear was revealed to be Sarah, as she patted me on the back, and proceeded to stand on the rock, as well. Then, the deeply warming bright lights of the sun evaporated into the cool of a young night, shroud with so many stars, the sky seemed more white than black. The crowd went silent, and Kronos began to speak.

“Having been discussed, it was purely a survival tactic for the individual to agree to be a part of a community. From the communities, we evolved to being a very social species; a tenant of a functioning society. Our mind also allowed for us to evolve into individualistically expressive as to our wants, personalities, opinions, and passions. Unlike other species, we believe our survival is aided by a strong, and well-functioning society, but inevitably one’s survival is predicated on the individual’s actions. Humans are individually expressive, and thus, disagreements on ways to increase our community’s survival emerged; because of disagreements a community had to develop a system for which all people felt represented, protected, and heard. This system would be called a government. The origin of the word govern, in Latin, is gubernāre meaning to steer, like a ship, and also in Greek, from the word kybernân, to steer. A government was meant to steer a society towards a greater, and safe life. Early societies began experimenting with different approaches to governing, like the city-state of Athens, with its Democracy, or the Persian Empire, with an absolute Monarchy. The objective of a government, was to provide safety, internally, and externally, access to survival necessities, means to promote the citizen’s own way of life, and the advancement of culture. When an aspect of or a specific form of government no longer provided these functions, the citizens spoke of rebellion, government reform, or tweaked the antiquated form of government, and developed new ways to govern. Throughout our societal history, we have seen the rise of great kings, military rulers, and wise prophets. Whether by force or by a social contract consensus, the citizens abided by the laws, and the leaders of their society. Governing has been a story of human evolution, and we have learned what the individual, and community expect from a government. Yet it must be acknowledged that governments were made to regulate the functionality of our species within the confines of cities, and states, which were made by humans for humans. It is a testament to how far our mind has allowed us to monitor, and advance, our species. If we told Pharaoh Ramses that one day all citizens were equal, and even the opinions, and vote of the poorest in a society mattered, he would probably scoff at the idea. So if Pharaoh Ramses scoffs at democracy, but we all agree it is better than an absolute monarch, who is right? This may seem like an unnecessary question, because the times have changed, and we have built upon the governments of yore. Yet have the times really changed? Many humans believe their form of government is correct, and they subsequently scoff at societies who adhere to another form. This is a relevant observation, because there clearly is no right answer, as a government is a reflection of the society it oversees. A form of government works for one culture would be ineffectual for another distant culture. To speak with such absolute certainty of how one form of government is greater than another, is like saying that since the color green is my favorite color it is better than the color red. There is no natural validity for any specific form of government. We as a species have decided what government presently works best for us, and as long as the government fulfills its role in society we too can fulfill our citizen’s role. As a species we have agreed to abide by government, which can be compared to the alpha males, or females, found within animal kingdom communities. This comparison is valid, because we can observe what naturally occurs, whether human, or animal, and that is when a group of like-minded creatures come together to form a community, a means of governing emerges. There is no right way, or wrong way, to govern except when it is counter to survival. Knowing the futility of believing any form of government to be absolute, and certain we can now understand that government is simply our evolutionary adaptation to maintaining societal order. At no point is a form of government natural, but rather humans experimenting with what works best, whereas, to guarantee a society’s, and the human species survival. Maybe in the future a civilization will learn about our societies, and scoff at how we governed ourselves just like we now do to leaders like Pharaoh Ramses. Realizing the futility in promoting one form of governance over another let us look to nature, and learn from its laws, whereas, to continue our species long held tradition of experimenting with government.”

I awoke to realize I was somehow writing while far away in my mind. I had scribbled down some notes in a handwriting I hadn’t seen since I was a child trying to learn cursive. “So that’s why Kronos says time doesn’t exist, because it’s just a means to measure nature’s chaos. The logic applies to governments, and any other man-made institutions. It is just humans adapting to nature, and attempting to harness, control, and experiment with guaranteeing survival. We just got one thing wrong about it, there is no us versus them, because we are all the same. I weep, and mourn for my world filled with pain, religious ignorance, racial epitaphs, and resource impurities. We are blind to the debts we have incurred whether through an ecological deficit, or selfish materialistic glorification. We have created a system of quick fixed with no exit strategy. We are the modern slave to the monetary, and the mundane. We preach of individual freedoms, and liberties. But what our communal freedom from the shackles of this, our modern day slavery?”

I weep, and mourn? Who is the person who wrote that? It certainly wasn’t me. Who am I becoming, what has my subconscious started to believe? Am I becoming as selflessly idealistic as Sarah, or any other revolutionary thinker? What if that person takes over my being? I feel so alive, so aware, so present, so strong, but I don’t know why. I’m losing my old self, isn’t that what you wanted? Yes, but I wanted to control where I went. This thing inside me, this knowledge, this linkage to the heart of humanity, is too strong for me to control. My mind is weak, and is pulsing still with information overload. I just need a drink.

It was like the God of my dream felt pity for me, and a brain that couldn’t take any more, there was knock on the door. Rat-tat-a-tat-tat, I recognized that knocking code anywhere, because it was a required college dorm retort, if tat-tat to tell the questioning roomie if it was all clear of any awkward moments of walking in on a sexual rendezvous, or self-pleasuring. Laying the papers on the coffee table I snuck to the door, and knocked the nostalgic tat-tat. Upon the last tat’s completion, the door unlocked, swinging with the force of a caffeinated child causing me to fly back. Completing a perfect landing from my survival instincts kicking in, I focused on the open armed suited man, “John is back baby!” I made out a bottle of dark liquor in his right hand, and a bag of what could only be inclined being called satiating greasy, inhaling inducing, aromatic, take out.

“John! How did… why are you here?

“Wow, not the welcome I expected.” John said, excelling dejected jest.

“You know what…. Oh he understands why do I take people so seriously? For God’s sake, this is juvenile John we are talking about… It’s great to see you. Oh I missed you! I said repeating the American ritual of cordial hugging, while secretly mourning for my liver, and dreading my bodies post reaction to unbalanced sleeping patterns, which I knew like the back of my hand when I was with John. John was about pushing the limits of debauchery. I can tell he’s in the youthful mood of Dionysus, most likely his unadulterated attempt to cheer me up! Or make sure I followed through on me promising to let loose. Bolting from the embrace like a child released from school for summer break, John found himself in the kitchen pulling out any utensil, coffee cups, and plates he could find. After much commonplace catch up while John fumbled around, I soon find a plastic yellow flowered- plate, with a mound of lo mein seeming noodles. It was paired with a fine Châteauneuf-du-Pape in a chipped mug. John may have money, but he’s still from home. “So you may be asking yourself, why this? Well it's from this local place, in Chinatown, where these recipes have been handed down from generation to generation since the Ming Dynasty. At least that's what the owner has made is truth, and I can't disprove his truth. It’s damn good!” John said, slurping noodle, wine, and speaking in one glorious gesticulation.

We cheer with our chopsticks wrapped with noodle goodness “To my dear friend! Life may have changed your address, but it’ll only be the start of a great adventure.” John said, preceding we slurped in unison. The warm noodles taste shot my palate to a spice market in the far east; colors of bright yellows, hushed reds, and a citrus scent. “So what you been up to? I filled him in on the minute by minute replay, nothing about my shifting mind. He seemed to be pleasantly pleased, but the twinkle in his eye told me to prepare for the list of festivities in store for tonight. So I get the ball rolling by asking him about this unexpected visit. “Well, I’m actually here for business. It's not for a few days, but I had finished all work, and decided what the heck, I need to show my old friend all the decadence only a city older than the Roman Empire would have.” Listening to the agenda I smiled agreeably, so do people get too old for this, if so when? Two mugs down, increased mutual laughter, and being filled with the sense of comfort, and safety needed to for intoxication, I set off for the porridge of a third mug. This was followed by me whistling to my room to locate, iron, and mirror check my one ‘going out’ outfit I brought.

Less Sobriety in Drunk Motion

The night was a blur, but there are some snapshots I must have taken. I remember a crowded bar, with multicolor glasses placed in a pattern of perfectly symmetrical rows in the walls of a building that could only have been a library in its previous life, with the placement of bookshelves, and a rod to attach a portable ladder; which the bartenders did to retrieve random liquors from the rainbow inspired shelfs. I remember peeing, and looking down only to see pipes that were made of clay, aging the whole floor to a museum of Athens former glory. I lose a lot of time, because the next thing I know, I’m doing blow in a karaoke bar bathroom with a very friendly, hippie, new acquaintance. I think he told me he was a backpacker from Norway. Yup, I can now envision him as he did a line, and Celine Dion played in the background. He looked as though he’d mastered the unkempt look so well, it made perfect sense he would wear it. His green Thai fisherman pants, Jesus sandals, and loose fitting linen shirt matched perfectly with the colors of the beads which sporadically adorned his blond, matted dreadlocks. With a burst of chemical courage, he started to explain, “each bead is from a country I’ve visited. This one was shaped from a monkey’s tooth in the jungles of Thailand…” This went on for a while. I think. Soon we were taking sake down with the pleasure of eating forbidden fruit. John, and I did some cheesy 1980s duet. It gets hazy again then I’m watching John drawing a smiley face with his urine against the wall, and Norway playfully chasing a street dog. More blow in a car, I think was John's, more people, and this time more locals of the female, slutty, persuasion, with hiked up animal print, pleather skirts, and annoyingly pink, lipstick. Soon, skinny dipping, and drunken conversations on the beach with one of the ladies of the night, while we could hear John, and the other Bathsheba female behind a rock fulfilling unspeakable, carnal, urges as the moans, and shrieks attested to. I must have blacked out then, because the next thing I knew, I was awoken to the smells of coffee, and toast. Rubbing my eyes, and stretching out of the couch fitting, fetal position, I could see the ladies were gone, or only visible at night. But Norway was still here, snoring in a chair, butt ass naked, and covered from head to toe with that same pink lipstick that I found obnoxious. I also saw John was the creator of the breakfast smells. Seeing me stir, “Good morning. Boy did we have fun last night. Here take this, and it’ll wake you right up.” John threw a bottle of Adderall at me, of which I graciously swallowed, and BAM! I was suddenly energized, and motivated to clean the apartment, while eating toast, and waving good bye to a now dressed Norway who seemed excited for the next adventure he would find outside the front door. I felt so focused, my mind so alive, with thoughts, I barely cared my brain was still fermenting in the booze of a blackout night. Showering the smell of pot, cigs, spilt sake, and that sinner grime, which gets into every pore, I found myself on the balcony, with a smoke, coffee, and John, who was working on a new cigar. He seemed so at peace, so content, and all I could think about was how John was just a cog in a system he believes to be absolute. Maybe like his apartment, not all was as it seemed.

“John, are you proud of what you do?” John seemed a little insulted by the inquiry. Like I was doubting his goodness, and his motivations.

“I don’t know if I’d use the word proud all the time but…. He actually is giving this thought…. Yeah, I know most people might see me as a leech attached to the soul of humanity. But I bust my ass so this whole damn world humanity calls home, remains intact.” He had subconsciously become defensive in his tone… I’ve realized when people get defensive, or angry at something you said, it’s because there is a truth in the question the person isn’t, or doesn’t want to deal with just yet.

“I didn’t mean for that to be a negative. It’s just… well… “I fidgeted to get my thoughts in a respectful presentation, whereas, to not lose John to his emotions, or by unfiltered, hangover brain words. “Okay, so it seems people are poor here, of body, mind, soul, and wallet. They blame people like you, John. Are they misguided in their resentment?

“First, I have to say, that I didn’t create this recession, nor did my firm, nor did the Greek government. Humans did it, and we’ve been doing the same thing since we can remember.” I realize the cigar was, in fact, a joint as he passes it to me in preparation for what seems to be somewhat of a long monologue. Pot might get me in that world of creative understanding, because I’ve never really understood how John thinks, or sees the world. Wow, just like life I really had no idea who John really was. How much of my life has been this superficial?

When we as a species found ways to harness agriculture, whereas, to eliminate a mobile hunting, and scavenging communities, we began to promote immobile, and self-sustaining communities, or societies. Being able to produce our own crops, and sustain a permanent lifestyle, we realized that as to maintain said permanence each member of the society must contribute to the well-being of the whole. Soon labor roles emerged like farmer, butcher, blacksmith, craftsman, and so on. We knew that the individual could not fully provide for all of society's necessary needs so we distributed the work amongst the population. Soon those in a specific labor need became so good that they were the only ones even able to supply the demand for a certain product. So the laborer, so an opportunity to make well by themselves, and develop a system of exchanging goods produced by the individual for the goods of another specialized laborer. A market where anything which the society could produce, necessary, or want, was bartered off to the highest return of value. What came from something very organic in the functionality of a community quickly emerged to an expression of human excess. Produced goods became something admired, and coveted by all, particularly rare, and inconsequential goods. Soon a system of communal well-being became a community of the haves, and the have-nots. Goods, and wealth were accumulated by those with enough foresight to see where a profit might emerge. It became a system of hierarchical resource, and commodity control. A world of aristocrats, kings, and queens, business tycoons, and the ultra-rich. What emerged was the concept of owning the greatest amount of wealth equates to an individual having a societal superiority. This concept has brought value to the belief in excessive consumption over equitable sustenance. Wealth, as means to project success, evolved from a human made system, which started with the intent to moderate the equitable exchange of commodities. When the market took hold, the knowledge of finite resources was unknown. The population size barely left a dent in resource availability as compared to our present population, and consumerist tendencies. This harkens back to our misguided approach to ownership previously discussed. Our warped sense of wealth, being the human who amasses the greatest amount of things (commodities, and resources), and collected a majority of market shares. We have developed a hierarchical approach to success, which inevitably is not sustainable. Let us first discuss the irrational nature of a free market, or capitalism, as some would label it. Let it be noted from the onslaught of this critique that capitalism has spurred technological innovation, and human advancement, with its utilization of competition. This competition aspect has made many of humans think outside the box to make theirs, and their neighbors life better, easier, and safer. Yet, for all the good capitalism has done for the progression of humanity, its time as a beneficial financial system is coming to an end. For at the core of capitalism lies certain trends which are unreliable, unsustainable, and resulting in greater societal inequality. Each trend will be discussed but it speaks to the root of the problem, and that is, capitalism promotes wealth over humanity; money over mankind; individual superiority over communal sustenance. That was the same logical argument of Sarah. Two juxtaposed characters on the future of humanity, and they feel the same way deep down about where we as humans have come from. Survivalists seeking the safety of wealth, and happiness.

“Some of us are the maintainers of the status quo.” Something about those words, status quo, had now become dirty words in my mind. Like it is an antiquated God of a forgotten civilization. People still worship it even when they don’t know why, or even its origins.

“Yeah, I hear you, and I respect what you do. But wasn’t it the status quo which got Greece to where it is now?” I can’t seem to fully grasp how we attempt to view society like a linear, orderly machine, and actually think we have a fighting chance against nature’s chaos, and the unalterable impact of human behavior, and survivalist motivations. It’s like Greece is a symbolic lesson of humanities past, present, and future.

“Look, I don’t like it even more than you do. But we have to have rules, protocols, and systemic order, whereas, to maintain a functioning society. We can’t predict everything, but I’m sure as hell going to be ready. As for Greece, I think what my firm did could be considered predatory lending. They knew Greece’s financial forecast before they loaned all that money. But I like to believe that at the time it was the right thing to do by the Greek people.” And just like that it clicked, like the first time you felt true love’s kiss. All we humans are doing is taking everything moment by unexpected moment, and doing the best we can to survive. Our reactionary ways may not be the best decision making notion, but we mean well. We have a status quo, because it's comforting to our survivalist soul. There has to be a better way which keeps the order of societies while respecting the power of chaos which comes in the form of human behavior, and nature. If not the machine of government, and economics, then what?

“I know that many see this refinancing deal,” John pointed to his briefcase, as if by submitting it as Evidence A’ would bring him greater validity in his commentary, “as a bad thing. Just kicking the can down the road, while people starve to death. I think about those families who don’t know where their next meal, and paycheck is coming from, and here I am with $5000 suites, and scotches older than most people.”

Inhaling slowly, holding the smoke in, which produced a throat cough followed by a puff of mother nature’s medicine, “And it’s my job to keep a system in place, which keeps them in despair.” John went silent as he hunched over like an embarrassed, recently reprimanded, child. His face squished up like the manifestation of the sincere sadness he felt. “I would like to make this all go away, this pain, and depression, but I can’t see any other way. I can only do what I know, for a financial system, which doesn’t even have two legs to stand on anymore.” John, realizing he may have said too much, shrugged with the acceptance of now having to explain. “For me, capitalism is a brilliant idea, which merges human behavior, and logic. It takes care of itself, because people are motivated by their own, individual, self-interest. But I’m also aware that having self-interest as a motivator makes for a selfish society.” That was it, we have made our societies’ reflect the individual human survivalist, and not the human species. We were blessed with the freedom to hold our own opinions, beliefs, and we praised the most original, and the most unique. Nowadays we celebrate the person, and not the species, the person is a part of. “It can bring both the good, and bad of people out, because the markets are self-interested decision making we can now justifiably rationalize being bad by other people.” I felt as though John was unintentionally sending me mixed signals. Like he hadn’t fully positioned his soul’s perception on the matter. He’s still looking for answers too.

“So why do it if you hold so much doubt?”

Inhaling deeply again, “Because I like this life I have. I know it's vain, and I know it’s just stuff, but I’ve grown accustomed to nice things. I’ve become attached to my life plan, and I believe I can eventually correct all the ills, if I just stick with status quo for now.” John is benefiting from this machine while others die. He is so blind.

“How Machiavellian of you.”

“And how superficial too. Yeah I know.” Dejected face returns to the corners of John’s pursed, contemplative, lips. “But one day I will make sure that family has these securities, and pleasures too.” Something about how John flippantly linked material possessions to non-material emotions seemed blatantly illogical. It fell flat, because he had accepted that he will not bite the hand that feeds him, status quo of modern, materialistic, selfish, society. So by accepting it as ‘how it is’ he is learning to suppress thinking about how it could be, or how wrong we may have gotten it. John is the problem. Not, because he is a malicious, greedy, malcontent. It’s, because he’s not willing to see that the body he is operating on is already dead, and people like me, Sarah, and countless others, can smell the rot. No, John simply claims he feels a subtle pulse, and plugs his nose. John’s trying so hard to be right by people with the confines of constructed walls of status quo surrounding our society he has forgotten there is a whole world of different ways of doing things just eyeing the gate. I know John means well, and is a good person, and will be a success in society’s eyes. But he’s going to miss seeing what is natural, or real, and what is not. We both felt the truth, I am just willing to go beyond the safe walls of an orderly society to face chaos in my quest for being. I will never tell John, or even hint to him how I feel about him. I guess he has to figure out the true reality by himself. John is staring into the dark nothingness which lies on the sun falling horizon. Still in thought, John gets up, scampers off, and quickly returns with two shots of ouzo indicating to me his readiness to cease this introspective session, and simply neglect his emotional needs with the numbness of fun. I guess we all don’t want to deal with what aches us either, because we like how it feels, or unwilling to put in the time to deal with the past, which shields the light of the promise of a free mind, and a new tomorrow. We are creatures of habit, routine, and comforts so, even when we don’t like feeling sad, we are familiar with it, and allow it to keep on living, and growing in our subconscious until it’s so big it’ll take decades to clean it out. Taking the ouzo down like water John leaned forward, hands grasped, and resting on his knees, “I think it’s also fear that keeps me here.” Wow, maybe he is trying to clear his mind of toxic emotions. That’s the first step to seeing the truth. “This economy thing isn’t going to last forever. I mean we never realized that although supply, and demand is a natural market equalizer we didn’t realize the equilibrium keeps going higher, and higher. Now we can’t reach it. No, it owns us now. It’s a monster which is so big, impacting every human alive, and not yet born, we have to keep feeding it to stay alive. Stimulus package here, loan with high interest there, and purchasing debts to minimize its reach; those are just some ways we feed it. So we kick the can, to just buy one more day of stability. I fear the day it all will collapse, and I want to be in a position where I’m safe to watch the monster die.”

“So you fear the monster of global markets, both alive, and dead, you also know it's going to die, why don’t you just kill it already?”

“You tell that to a billionaire who pays your salary that their money will mean nothing, because you decided to burn it yourself.”

“Then the only people who want to keep it alive are the monster’s owner, while the rest of us cower in obedient submission?” Here we go again, it applies to everything, fear of the chaos breeds a status quo which is taught to the society like indoctrination in its absolute necessity. The ancient Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians used the same logic too.

“Sadly, yes. At this point there’s nothing more we can do, but change the system from within.” Oh John, if the machine is broken to the point of disrepair why tinker with it anymore, and be smarter buying a better new one? Just, because it is this way doesn’t mean we have to reluctantly accept a damaged life. No, we fight to tear down the walls of status quo, and experiment anew. “But as Aristotle says, we humans have our backs to the future, and eyes resting on the past, and present. The past is like a probability blueprint for the future.” I can tell we are done soul digging, “And my past also tells me I’m getting to just the right tipsy for dinner, and more drinks.” The numbing of fun. I can tell John is acting all happy now but he’s still thinking about his soul, and needs solo time. I was right as John excused himself to the kitchen to find stuff to make dinner. I sat motionless yet again, but this time my mind thought of the present, and not the past. Listening to John shuffle around the kitchen looking for munchie foods, I sat in the loud silence of my thoughts. I always thought there was a good guy, and a bad guy in all moments of injustice, inequality, and oppression. But I’m starting to see that’s just the easy way out of not having to deal with it beneath the superficial. Sure John could be portrayed as the greedy bank baron rolling around in his vault of money, while the world screamed with growling stomachs. But he wasn’t. He is just a human like all of us. Doing the best he can, with what weapons he has to defend his survival. We are all simply survivalists, and that means all societal institutions are just our attempt at building fortifications to fend off our extinction. There are not absolutes, no one is better than another. They simply are the accumulated actions of humans reacting, and attempting to eliminate the unexpected enemy at the gates of humanity. It has been a struggle just as real today, as it was in all civilizations before us. We aren’t right, noble, or pure. We are just trying to stay alive. But sometimes, like Greece, our fixes can’t out maneuver the approaching army. We see them coming, and we try to prepare, and defined our safe, and comfortable, status quo. But it is not natural, and chaos’s nature has a tendency to either rebalance the unnatural to better parallel it, or it simply pushes the restart button, and burns the walls down. But we will do what we do best; survival. Survive we shall, and rebuild the walls of order. Ouch, my cig burns my finger. It’s done, and like John, so am I, with all this pot pontificating philosophical thinking.

---

That night, while deciding to fall asleep, or stay awake, I began to see what John was talking about. How money, and the economy has morphed into an infeasible, unnatural entity. I began envisioning a far off land. Many living in these present times can see the global perpetuation of poverty found within capitalistic economies. We know as humans we are failing those starving to death, but we think all they need is some money, a better job, access to education, and so on. So after we provide all the financial resources to these pockets of poverty somewhere else, another pocket of poverty emerges. Why can’t we eliminate the scourge of poverty? Because it is the financial system itself that is flawed. Picture a nation’s economy as a circle. For this exercise we will call this nation Utopia, and its currency is based on units of gold. Utopia has set its financial institutions to be capitalistic, and adheres to the laws of a free market. Remembering the circle as our visual aid, Utopia’s economy is worth 100 gold. The circle is at first, divided amongst the 50 citizens evenly in accordance to their role in the economy. There are two critical roles for a free market economy, the producer, and the consumer. The producers, and consumers start with 50%, or two gold per citizen, of the circle represented by a line splitting the circle. The line represents the market, or economy. When the line shifts, giving one side more, or less, percentage of the 100 gold, that is the market responding to producer, and consumer trends. The shifting of the line is what economists study. All the grandiose, and confusing words we often hear like inflation, depression, GDP, and so on, are merely the description of the shift in the market line, and the wealth found in the circle. It is that simple, and one would think that it would behoove the nation to maintain the line straight down the middle giving every citizen financial equity in the successes of a national economy. Yet, this cannot be the reality for a free market is based on the overused concept of supply, and demand. Simply put, there are commodities produced by the producers, and there are commodities the consumer wants. The commodity is the supply, and the want is the demand. A free market states that, if left alone, the supply, and demand will match perfectly, and everyone will be content. However, there are many unreliable qualities to this supposedly natural equilibrium.

First, for this system to function properly there must be the presence of a citizenry always wanting to consume. How is one able to consume? We need money, or like in Utopia we need gold. So from the start, the basic principle of free markets requires the citizens of Utopia to buy, and buy some more. Yet, what happens when Utopian citizens no longer wish to consume, or they don’t have enough gold to even buy the things they want? Or what happens when the producers cannot produce quick enough to match demand? Well, we will observe the line shifting, and the equilibrium of equal percentages moving in favor of one role over the other. Once, the equality is broken it will never be found again for the major artery of capitalism is, whereas, to contribute to its existence one must accumulate enough wealth to consume, or produce. We can start seeing now how in order to feed this financial system, the Utopians must individually spend more gold, in consumption or production, whereas, to counter their decrease in demand, and supply. How can the nation of Utopia do this? We’ll create greater wealth which can regain the supply, and demand equilibrium.

If Utopia leaves it to the will of the free market many citizens will attempt to reinstate their financial stability. They seek stability, because they lost their 2 gold share, or 2 gold no longer has a sustainable purchasing power. This occurs when the market shifts in favor of the consumer, or producer it takes away from their overall wealth which leads to very unreliable market trends. This leads to the second aspect of a free market’s unreliability.

If the consumer, or producer, has to increase their wealth, whereas, to participate in the market, there is only one place they can accumulate more gold. Whereas, the circle equals 100 gold, meaning there is no more gold out there to be had, a citizen with 2 gold, who now needs 3 gold to purchase their want of necessary goods, has to take a gold from the 100. This equals taking one gold from someone else, because there is no other option. So the Utopian may now have 3 gold, and they can live another day to consume, there is another Utopian who now only has 1 gold. This example can be applied to all aspects of free market trends, and the perpetuation of unreliable, and inequitable, national growth. A nation cannot predict how a Utopian, consumer, or producer, takes the 1 gold from another Utopian. But the free market will react to the lack of equilibrium thus making capitalism unreliable as it works like a logical, equilibrium seeking machine, but it does not account for human emotion. This becomes a catch 22, because in an attempt to promote consumerism, and the survival of the economy a free market capitalistic system must encourage very selfish, and inconsiderate human emotions. These selfish human emotions are what has led to capitalism being unsustainable.

---

The next couple of days flew by with constant numbness of fun, relaxing, and all the non-thinking an overworked brain would need. I had met with Apo, and arranged for him picking me up tomorrow bright, and early to help set up. I was excited about acting out my carnal survivalist revolutionary. I knew I was acting out of selfish desire, and probably not the best idea to get involved with other people’s matters. But it was driving by a car crash, and having to slow down to see the damage, and if everyone made it out alive. During the day John went off to Athens for final negations with the government. I would usually go visit Mo, head to the beach fall asleep after some writing, and get home in time for John, and I to continue on the numbing of fun. We went to a new, restaurant every night, made new friends, and wander the streets looking for trouble only wealthy, and powerful people have time to find. I was so in my own head, and so excited about the happiness I felt with John spoiling me that I really wasn’t looking at the city. Like really looking at how things truly are, and not on the tourist, and wealthy streets, but in the dimly lit alleys, and the cobbled corner stores. It’s easy to be sucked into the vortex of lavish living, and luxurious lifestyle. It’s nice to only see the good, and the fun. I had thought so much about the big picture of things, and how I fit into the equation of humanity that I was blind to the reality of humanities exploitation, and decay which was nuzzled under the trash heaps, and the forgotten voices of the poor, sick, and addicted Athenians.

One night we got turned around, and ended up in a part of Athens John wasn’t familiar with. It felt as though we had entered another country. The smell was pungent, the streets were littered by random trash, and the street lights flickered like a horror film, but it was simply, because no one felt they needed to care for this area. This was the area of illegal immigrants fleeing war, the destitute, junky looking for their next fix, and the criminally insane who had been discarded by society as a malfunctioning human with no care for solving their ills. This was a world every society hides from their reality. It’s the segregation of the poor, misunderstood, and victim to unfortunate events. John didn’t see them either as he was so focused on sobering up enough to get us out of here. But I saw them, I saw their eyes as they looked up from their cardboard home, and resented me all the while pleading with me to take them out of their misery. I saw the flicker of a lighter under a spoon filled with the best drug poverty can buy. I saw a little boy, whose smudged dirtied face asked if I wanted to buy some tissues from him, which I did, because I hurt when I saw that the tissue box of the tissue I now owned were tied to his feet acting as a makeshift pair of shoes. I had been so idealistic, so pompous, and so spoiled, that I thought this trip was about finding myself. I realized at that moment, looking into that little boy’s suicidal eyes, I had to find my humanity, and that’s where I would find myself. I couldn’t believe we allowed our fellow human beings to suffer so painfully, stripping them of any self-respect, and pride they had for themselves. We as a species had let them down in return for a greater piece of the wealth pie. We are doing this all wrong, and it’s not just John who’s a part of the problem. I am too, and so being anyone else out there who believes that one day this will be able to be fixed instead of doing anything about it now. Or anyone who sees these people as less than them, or not even human, but a piece of trash needing to be thrown away, and out of sight. It wasn’t, because we are mean, or greedy, it’s just our dreams, selfish vanity, pride, and societal status was beat into us as the meaning, and validation for life. We put value in things, which will one day fade just like the great kings found in the history books. The only thing that is of value, the only thing that is natural, and absolute is the heart, and soul of a human. We’ve been neglecting it lately in the pursuit of an inconsequential, unattainable, wealth, and success. If we keep this up, we will lose our very soul, and we will most assuredly go extinct from depraved, selfish, lust for things, and not people. We are like a plant, if we are not watered we will surely die, and we haven’t watered humanities soul, together, in a very long time. John finally gave up, called a cab, and as he laughed off that scary moment where the true face of humanity showed itself under the shadow of despair, I became invigorated with rage, frustration, and unadulterated anger at everyone. I wanted to watch everyone that had forgotten to love, and forgotten to care, burn in effigy. The rage in me was probably not the best fuel to put on my motivating fire right before the rally tomorrow morning. But that was the emotion chaos had given me. I hope I am strong enough to contain my hands from inflicting the pain I think so many of us deserve.

---

The day of the rally was one of the prettiest days yet, and it made for the perfect counterweight to the anger I still had inside me. Even when Apo picked me up, this time with his father’s car packed full with food, and signs for protesters, he made a comment about how dark my eyes had gotten. I brushed it off, and told him I’d been partying too hard, which he bought but could still sense something had changed. Even when he was explaining in detail today’s agenda, and plan in the car he seemed a little more mindful, and delicate with his words, and presentation like he was talking to a bomb about to explode. I don’t think he is far off, but I don’t know what’s going to set me off, because I’ve never felt such bitterness towards people, such hostility to blind stupidity. “Sorry, Apo. I’ve got a lot on my mind, and I’m just getting sick, and tired of seeing people hurting. You know? This is all new to me.”

Apo grinned, “It’s okay. You came to my country as an American tourist, and you will be leaving it as a revolutionary.” He was right, this rage was what motivated Sarah to keep going even when death was staring back at her, or failure, was about to gobble her up. She fought for the voiceless, the forgotten, and the unloved. I was becoming like her. But she was calm, and saw things black, and white. All I saw was red. I couldn’t separate the emotion away from my rational, considerate being.

When we had finally unpacked, and found parking, it became quickly obvious I was merely an observer. I saw Sarah, or more like heard, near the steps of parliament building yelling into a megaphone, “Freedom from tyranny. Join us as we peacefully march for the people of Greece and the world!” I was in complete amazement at the courage she had. She spoke with such a clarified, calm while forceful, tone that even the politicians going into parliament looked puzzled, wondering if they were on the right side of history. How could she be so calm, when I know the rage she has is far greater than mine. At least hers is justified. She has the battle scars to afford her the right to be pissed, to burn the whole building down if she had to. That’s how angry I am. But not at Greek politicians, Johns bank, the citizens who let this happen. No I’m furious with humanity. I’m furious we are so blind to each other we let each other die in the streets and take advantage of the gullible, ignorant minded. But I’ve felt this furious rage before. I wasn’t an idealistic revolutionary back then. I was a lost kid. This emotion isn’t because of Athens, it’s because something is wrong with me. I am angry at John, Greece, Banks and now I realize it is the same as the anger I had for my mom. I’m using anger to find myself. Is this the right way to do it? The megaphone went hush, and I had enough time to see Sarah fake sprinting towards me, before consuming me with a bear hug even the bears would find comfortable. “You made it! And you brought my technology savior!”

That was when I found my rage no longer had a friendly, listening audience, as Apo was rushed off to set up some speaker, or screen, thing. Why would they leave me? I want to fight too! Why are you making this about you? This is supposed to be about helping other people, remember? Then I heard my dad, “Go meet your human brothers and sisters.”

Heading my conscience’s advice, I rummaged through my bag, and low and behold, there was the journal, still unused, but that one time in college. I couldn’t locate a pen. “Oh God, really? I just need a pen. Why won’t things work out? My conscience again found me, “You are the one who forgot to pack the pen. But look around you before you complain.” Taking the time to actually look all over I realized I had started taking in the moment instead of thinking and worrying in my mind. Then like manna from heaven, there it was. A red and yellow pen from that infamous American burger place. Wow, our business is everywhere. Hoping to make myself included in the action, I reverted to the one role I do best. I just made myself the unofficial journalist of the revolution. It’s the scholar who saves the story for the ages to hear. It’s never the warrior who can tell the story, making hero’s immortal. I stood motionless, my rage was slowly flickering out, because I realized I was the reason I was so angry. No one else. Just me. And it was just me in a sea of vengeful wrath as I looked for my first subject. The level of characters, heightened emotions, which verged on manic outbursts of injustice. There was the anarchist college student with a red Mohawk, I have found the more tattoos and outlandish looks a person has the more insecure and lost they are. There was also the grandmother whose floral yellow dress made her look to have gotten the wrong address to her tea party, and there was the feminist whose image was ripped right out of a 1960s: ‘The Origins of Hippies’ documentary. Throughout history, these same characters and the same anger. People like me have been writing this same story. Why do we choose not to learn? Looking out on the same, same but different characters, their faces seemed to morph into all those I’d met along the way. My red rage was slowly being replaced by a white glow of peacefulness. What makes me angry is lack of love. Am I the only one? There was Kronos, Mo, Apo, Helena and I swear I could see John staring down at us from the golden gilded high windows of parliament. But the persons who intrigued me the most was a couple, simply sitting, and silently participating. Why this couple? There were the faces from my timeless dream. He was the kiosk vender, and she the beautiful, apple eating street stroller. This time they wore clothes, jeans, and graphic tees to be exact. One shirt said “Ohm is where the heart is” written in calligraphy. The other was the cliché Che Guevara photo. Their faces were stoic, but welcoming, just like when they were the ancient Athenians of my dreams. Slowly entering their personal, curbside, space, the man noticed my encroachment and seemed to agree to speak with me before I asked. They knew I was coming.

“Haven’t I seen you before?” The angelic woman asked me, leaning past her partner to see me as the wind tousled her hair with pure perfection.

“I can’t say that we’ve met before. But you look familiar too.” I knew how so for me, but I wonder if I was in their dreams.

“This is my wife, Hera. People just call me Z. Pleasure to meet you.” They both extended their hands with the same care as Sarah, Kronos or pretty much everyone I had met here.

“Nice to meet you, as well. As you can tell by the accent I am from the United States. I know the organizer of this event, and seeing as I am a writer back home, I wanted to start writing the stories of the protestors.”

“That’s a fantastic contribution!” Hera whistled through the clouds of her thoughts and green. “But we aren’t protestors, if that matters to you at all.”

“Oh no, it’s not a problem. But I thought, since you were here you felt as much anger as I did earlier to get you to join in the rally.” They both looked at each other, exhaled an inside joke chortle, looked at me, and smiled at me like I was a misinformed tourist.

“We appreciate what everyone is doing,” Z said with a booming, electric, deep booming voice, which seemed to echo on the ground beneath us, “it’s just we stopped protesting … years ago. Right honey?” I could tell Z wasn’t a big talker, but Hera, on the other hand, was the wild child of a journalists dream. The one who will talk all night, say everything, and leave no detail stone unturned. I was finding a personal happiness with these people I hadn’t felt in a soulful while.

“Yes, oh how we love watching people. We watch instead of protesting because we’ve seen so many of these. No one ever listens, or cares until both sides are so filled with anger, one inevitably snaps on the other. Such hate for our neighbors.” She looked me straight in the eyes, for that brief moment Hera controlled my inner dialogue. She was telling me I should have been ashamed for letting the same type of anger which destroys people’s lives into my own life. She was sad for me, for all of us. Breaking contact as fast as it seemed to start, Hera continued, “All we Greeks want is to be respected, free, and just enough help so we can stop feeling subhuman, inferior, treacherous, selfish, or forgotten. Don’t you want the same thing back in the United States?” I nodded in agreement, as I wrote down her whimsical words. “Like the United States is for you, this land is my ancestral home. It is owned by my family, his family, and most likely your relatives, at one place in time, as well. The government and these banks are not home. We just let them take up residence. They forget we decide their fate. Alas, greed, and vain pride has made them blind to history. Our cause is humanities cause and they are on the wrong side of the future.” We were interrupted by a growling voice screeching in the megaphone, “Your government is no longer owned by you. Instead the wealthy elites of the big banks control what your government can, or can’t do. They have done it all over Africa, South America, and now here in Greece. Stop the practice of banks owning your life!” Its tone rang perfectly parallel to the rage, which I knew did not belong, but I could not rid myself of.

As the megaphone went out, I heard someone yell for Apo, and I was, all of a sudden, back with my favorite couple. Hera, seeing she had my full attention again, said, “Please know, I don’t blame anyone. The bankers were doing the best with what they were given, and/or too blind to see the reality of humanity, because all they can see is repairing the machine instead of replacing the machine. She knows of the machine too! She has probably learned the ways beyond societies metallic parameters. “This blindness was brought to you the evolution of humans believing, absolutely, the necessity, as if a naturally birthed intensity, of order. Our complete repulsion to chaos, and eliminating all things that exist within its realm. Yet, we have forgotten to realize that chaos is the only natural order of the universe, and our allegiance to order is an allegiance to a societies enforcement of the unnatural status quo. By attempting to predict the future with laws, regulations, moral, and ethical codes, we limit the beauty of chaos. We close all the doors of endless possibility that the randomness, that is chaos, has to offer. We proclaim what the moral things are, and will be, and we snuff out growth, evolution, innovation, and genius. We do this, because we are afraid of the unknowingness that lays ahead. So instead of uniting, we remain ignorant to the fact we are in this together, and great things are accomplished when we all come together. Instead we let that ignorant fear splinter us into tribes, ideologies, philosophies, nations, and races. We speak of these ordered ideas as an absolute, because we were taught our views, and beliefs had to be adhered to absolutely, because we have let the suspicious, cave dwelling, animalistic ancestors tell us to fear the unknown, and shun the non-believer. We as humans are reactionary, not revolutionary; conservative, not liberal; fearfully divided, not proudly united. What if the meaning of life is that there is no meaning? It is a time of experience not a time for destiny. For if we try to find the meaning of life while we live, we won’t know the answers till death. Therefore, our pursuit is in vain, for it does not exist in our lifetime. There may be comfort to the meaning question, but what is its significance of knowing?”

Just as my mind was percolating with the prospect of knowing the meaning of life, a cold wind seemed to snap the happy couple into physical shock. Their eyes became dark as the jetted all over conveying raw fear. What just happened? Where did the lovable couple go? Did I say something wrong? Had my rage been so strong I pulled them into it as it has a tendency of doing? No, this was something else. Something far worse. Z was calm but he had an air of hurriedness as he stood up, extending his hand and helped Hera to her feet. “We are very sorry.” Z said as if purposefully leaving out some necessary detail. “Something isn’t right here and we can no longer be here.”

“Like…” Hera searched for the words to relay to me their concern, “a darkness consumed our light, your light. Please be careful. We shall see you soon.” Hera, leaned in to kiss me on the cheek, as did Z.

“Was it something I said?”

“Not at all, but sadly it is something you brought. Be mindful of emotions you put out into the world. They have a habit of returning with the force of a boomerang.”

“Okay, well thank you for…” I started to say, as I stuffed my journal back into my bag. I stopped because I get a rush of speed, only to look up, and they were gone. They were nowhere to be seen. Instead what replaced where they stood was the stench of sulfur. Still looking for the couple, and the origin of the stench I skewered the rally with all my sight. But instead of me finding what I was looking for, Z was right. It found me. The sulfur was soon matched with what sounded like the ticking of space launch countdown. I look up to see a man who on the outside fit right in. He was the perfect image of those we saw as oppressed, and fighting back. But he soon noticed my gaze, and returned the favor. What I saw in there was not the person I assumed was before me. It was beautifully black, like the red diamond on the black widow’s back. It’s alluring, but your fight, or flight, auto-pilot subconscious is telling you to run. I knew why now this blackness in this man’s eyes were making me run, because I knew who he was now. He was death.

---

I trusted myself, and began to run with such fervor other people could sense my panic, and as humans do, reacted with their own survivalist subconscious. People began to flee the scene with me, and before I knew it, my premonition was correct. The last thing I remembered before being in this hospital was the sharp metallic popping of heat, and iron. That was promptly followed by what felt like a kick in the back from a wild horse. As I realized, I had no other option but to fall, because my body was hurt, I heard the thud of my face onto the ground while smoke, and people’s feet consumed me to the point of unconsciousness. Luckily, I had been far enough away from the blast to only get minimal burns, and a few lesions, and a bruised rib. I can’t believe I ran. I can’t believe how stupid my anger felt now. I had heard only one protester was killed, and 23 were wounded. It could have been worse; it could have been the end for many story lines. I pray this will not stain the pages of human history too much, it's already stained with far too many sad stories already. I am sad, but I’ve never felt so alive. Once you stare death in the eyes you can’t fully comprehend the freedom it provides you after you defeat it. We have heard all too often to live in the now. To take in all which is around us, and prescribe respect to its beauty. It is a notion which extracts us from the societal definitions of who we are, and allows for an introspective awakening of what we are. Yet, life cannot simply be paying homage to nature. It must also be to ask why. One of the greatest things in life is the gift of learning. To learn means we are asking the question of why. The greatest disservice we do to ourselves is the illusion of knowledge. For with knowing, comes the comfort of certainty. Knowing allows us to see the world with parameters, and gives us a sense of ease. Yet, our concept of knowing, must be shattered for there is no knowing. There is only learning. If life could be known, and defined, it would have been universally accepted. Yet, life is a voyage of learning. Do not relegate the concept of learning to books, and philosophy, for knowledge can also take the form of love, travel, and work. We all say that each new day brings new challenges. This is, because life is all about learning. From challenges we learn to adapt our self, and knowledge to better equip ourselves for the next. We in today’s society have separated this notion of learning from the notion of being. With our personal, and societal parameters, we have a false certitude of being. While, knowledge is separate, as to make one’s being better. The distinction may not be fully evident yet. However, there is a difference to building a house on an already constructed floor plan than building a house with a floor plan still being formed. We cannot properly learn if we have already decided to what means we learn. This is not to say all things of who we are can be changed. Race, sexuality, national identity, family, and so on, are some of the things which cannot be changed. But those things cannot also be our sole world view. It may decide our starting place in the race of life, but it does not dictate our speed, and endurance towards the finish line. If we go through life interpreting ‘the now’ through the lens of uncertain certitude parameters, we miss all that life has to offer. Over and over again we hear the words ‘life's a journey’. Well if life's a journey, why do so many of us attempt to define the journey with falsehoods of self-definition. A journey has a sense of exploration. Yet we reject the promise of discovery for the illusion of knowledge. If we pursue a life of defining through parameters of self-worth we neglect the true essence of life. Life cannot be defined; individual people cannot truly be defined. So why do we attempt to define everything? It is a false comfort of knowing, but the reality is we will never truly know. That is what makes life so worthwhile. Yet what we can do in life is acknowledge that our journey is uncertain, and self-imposed definitions limit our ability to learn. Once we accept life is uncertain, and undefinable we break from the shackles of living under the illusion of certain knowledge. It is an allusion, with a false promise of purpose. To seek purpose is to seek validation of self, and existence. Why do we need the reassurances of definitions when it is clear life cannot be defined? We cannot define the undefinable; we cannot find certitude in the uncertain. Life is to experience, love, and learn. To seek purpose is to seek the unattainable. To seek knowledge is an obtainable journey. So often we hear those who have gained power, wealth, and beauty say they pursued their endeavors to reach their defined purpose. Yet when they got to the place of destiny they still felt a void. Some may claim the void can be filled with faith, of which I will discuss later. Yet for now the void comes from those individuals seeking to define themselves with societal parameters, comforted by the illusion of meaning, and coupled with a sense of certitude of self-worth. It is a void which can only be filled with the acceptance of knowing life is undefinable, and uncertain, and to obtain comfort one must seek knowledge of things around them; to live in the now. In our pursuit of purpose, we fall into a societal routine which has been throughout the course of human history as we seek to define ourselves with parameters. We have used bloodlines, religion, and nationalities to construct distinguishable attributes. As discussed already, these attributes give each of us a sense of purpose, which guides us through our shared experience of life. We all seek the same things from life; love, acceptance, purpose, happiness. These notions are not limited to language, but an individual, and universal cause. In our pursuit of those notions we attempt to put parameters on them. Love may come in the form of marriage, and finding this overly hyped sense of a soul mate. For belonging we emphasize our heritage, and constructed the great wall of nationalism. For purpose we have faith in self, or a higher being. As for happiness, we have collectively decided wealth, fame, and power are the only means necessary. These parameters of purpose allow us to define who we are, giving us a sense of ‘belonging’, and meaning. What they do is the largest disservice to ourselves, and our neighbors. By defining who we are as a person we limit ourselves from evolving. By labeling ourselves before our end we are blind to the opportunities each day may bring. If we already know who we are, and where we are going, life seems routine; a way to get to the end of the story we have already written. In our attempt to give meaning, and purpose to life we have forfeited life. We in modern society find ourselves in the rut of routine. This is because we have allowed for our society to evolve to one of labels, superficial definitions, and blind devotion to ideology. This is not revolutionary thinking; this is reflective, and responsible living. The idea of certainty comes in the forms of the parameters we set. Yet the greatest ironies of life are that there never is, and never will be, resolute certitude. Our parameters give us a false sense of certainty but robs us of living a life filled with uncertainty. We have created an ‘us versus them’ mentality in our false definitions of self. For once you are a part of something which is believed to be certain you will devote yourself to its cause. With such devotion to a certain uncertain we reject the possibility of finding greater purpose, and meaning. Once we have falsely defined who we are we inevitably fill the void of meaning in our lives, with things like religion, politics, materialism, greed, war, radicalism, and conflict.

As a people, we rely on natural instincts to survive. Yet it is our survival instinct, which limits us to making decisions with short term consideration, as we are survivalists motivated by self-preservation. In the instance of decision making we rely on emotional instincts, functionality of body. Guided by self-interest desires we attempt to promote our survival. Do not feel ashamed of such a seemingly over simplification, or negative interpretation, of humanity. It is not shameful but logical so as to understand how we have become. It is only human to want what is best for ourselves, and there is value in acknowledging our survival depends on maintaining that which sustains us. To survive is to adapt. It is the adaption, which allows for a community to emerge. In some areas, we reflect, or adopt, our environment, there is a need for strong community to survive. While others may allow for individuals to be self-dependent, motivated by self-preservation. Our more obligation to community is a reflection of the demands on self by external bodies. If the world had no communal governing body, all decisions would be made on the individual short sided human nature. We need community to protect ourselves, and others who adhere to their sole survivalist instincts.

It is only when a community, or ‘belong’ group, is threatened that our decision making expands beyond self. All of our innovations were developed to sustain, and elongate our survival like in medicine, business, education, science, and so on. We must apply our survival instincts to the collective, not just to self. That is why, and will be discussed later, no community is best, merely good if it reflects, and adapts to its people, and bad if it rejects the inevitable evolution of the communal demands. Wise humans have the knowledge of nature, and that we are not truly free as individuals. We are merely an aspect of eternal nature. Thoughts, hypotheticals, imagination are based on observed, or heard experiences. Survival through fear is a lack of knowledge; survival through community is the power of knowledge.

The nurse just put in pain medication into my drip. How beautiful it feels. How calm, and free of thought it is.

---

I returned to the reality of trauma with a jolt of adrenalin. My presence was back by the calming voice of my dear friend, John.

“Oh, thank God, you are alright. How are you? What the hell happened? Why…”? I could, for the first time, hear his mind. I could comprehend his soul, and absorb his worry. It was like there had been these invisible, bright, waves, which we share with other humans, other living things. How can I see it now?

Grabbing the hospital bed’s metallically cold rales, and interjected a response to John’s litany of questions, “John, I’m fine.” His cocked head made me aware of his disbelief in what I believed to be my truth. Pausing, and maintaining the link of two beings, with a sternly respectful focused eye contact I reiterated, “Yes, I am fine. It all happened so fast, I can barely remember the moment. It's like a page from my favorite novel, and I simply transposed myself into it just to experience the character’s basic human emotion. Like I wanted to feel what it was like to survive after seeing death.”

“You saw death?” With those words my mind became transfixed, with the darkest black I had ever seen in that man’s wasted soul. Like a transportation over all time I could see death’s roles in my existence, in my being. But I realized I had missed something in the nothingness of death. I could also see birth, and life. It was all the same, for every human being in the past, present, and future. It was then that I knew much of myself, of who I was, and how foolish I had been to think it was simply a world of individuals seeking purpose, and meaning. I was a part of a far larger battle, and only few know its truth.

I know John won’t understand, but my mind is racing with clarity, and reinvigoration. I hope so desperately John can find the truth. I hope the same for Apo, and Mo, and all those I have met along the way. I know Kronos sees it, and my father saw it. I’m fortunate enough to see it in time for me to do something about it. After painstakingly going over every detail of my enlightenment, I saw John accepted my truth. “Well, I think you’ve had enough adventures this time. The doctor said, you can get out of here in a few days. I’m going to stay with you, and then you, and I will be boarding a plane home.” I know that is not going to happen.

“Okay, I understand, John. Thank you for being so generous with me when I was burdened with by a broken heart, and mind.” John reached for my hand, and it was like a bolt of lightning coursing through my veins, seizing my body. It's about love. It's about each other, and a place beyond the stars. But when I reopened my eyes, John was gone. Maybe I had passed out, or something, because I was in the same room but the senses I had were grown. I can see another presence I had never encountered before.

---

John did return. All my bags were packed, and our tickets stayed safe with him at a hotel across the street. John’s deal was quickly streamlined, and negotiations went in his favor, because the Greek government feared the power of chaos among the people. Revolution is the emotion of anger, and revolt is the living manifestation of chaos. After all was said and done, John got the best outcome, even if it meant a nationalist terrorist targeting ‘anti-Greek’ rebels. When John was telling me about the deal, as we played Go Fish! while eating Jell-O, he made a very interesting comment. “You know it's funny, if you look through history, every time there is an attack against a fellow human or during a time when most are divided, the attack always backfires. It’s like our meaning is for the benefit, and not the elimination of our fellow humans.” John might get it all just yet. He doesn’t know it, but he will gain all the worldly success he believes he will receive. The world has allowed him to bring it into reality, and this deal was the stamp of approval for John’s narrative. Hopefully he’ll realize the futility of finding self-worth, and value from a blinded society. But if not I know he will find a happiness I can no longer have, because I see a different happiness now. I wasn’t going home with John, because I already was home. Faced with death the weeds of self-doubt died, but I was born again.

After a few days of observation, the doctors released me, and John had a car ready to take us to the airport. I had refused the wheelchair exit, and asked John to take our bags down while I changed out of this gown. I finally am wearing my toga. I have to give John more credit, again, because he could sense in my tone that I was up to something. “Okay,” thinking about if he should address that gut feeling, always address that gut feeling before speaking, “Well then I'll see you downstairs in” looking at his watch followed by frustration, “Dammit, my watch stopped. I just got this thing. Well it's clearly not 12:34 anymore.” Looking at the clock above the bed, resting like a spiritual symbol blessing all those who reside below. “Anyway, you got ten minutes, and we have to go.” I smiled back at him, and I still think something clicked for him when he saw my eyes. Like he saw I was free, and I was no longer his old friend, I no longer was the person that had imprisoned my soul for so long. John took in the moment, and gave me an unexpected hug which was so strong we linked, and shared a moment of genuine love, and respect. Looking back with a wave John was gone. For how long? I only can give the answer to that.

I threw my clothes on rapidly, and pulled out a pen and paper next to the Greek Orthodox bible and a remote to a television a country so poor shouldn’t buy. “Dear John, I don’t know if you’ll ever understand, but I had to go. My adventure hasn’t ended; it has just begun. Thank you for helping me, and seeing the most beautiful gift, life.”

Then with a nod of farewell to my old self, I disappeared from this reality.

Less Death in Life’s Motion

Recently I came across a caravan led by three Bedouins, their families, and a multitude of faithful servants. I vaguely remember the sun beaming down so bright I could only see their shadowed faces as their side bags glistening with treasures. I had been lost for days in the arid sands, the depressing heat sweltered my common sense, pushing me to the edge of insanity. Everywhere I turned the desert was a nothingness; nature’s blank canvas. but it held the opposite story. I was in a place where the story was written from death to life. I found solace in the new birth of being returned home. Now I have relinquished my powers, and I will no longer be all alone. Before I saw the caravan I had cried out for help, and any guidance for the righteous path. As my eyes filled with tears of humble servitude to chaos, chaos reacted by sending me three families of Bedouins. I ran up to the servant guard leading the caravan, pleading, and begging, for nourishment. At the edge of death, I would have accepted any fate he chose for me. Fearing a quick death, I was overjoyed when, prostrating myself before his old leather sandals, I heard his happy chuckle. Then I knew my survival was certain when I saw it in the sand before my gaze. It was a bag filled with bread, fruit and a water pouch. Looking up, to thank him, I had to squint to see the angel, haloed by the sun, before me. I guess he truly was an angel. Him, and his families, very presence assured me I wouldn’t die. Again. I drank the water so fast I started to choke. The angel patted me on the back before wandering off to tell the whole caravan to stop. As I ate the bread and fruits I became very dizzy with the prospect of survival. All I remember before the darkness was seeing the rest of the families begin to set up their mobile society.

For a few days I faded in, and out of consciousness, one time awoken by the courteous kiss of a camel, being poked by an inquisitive child and a woman who hummed a beautiful ancient tune as she washed my feet. The next time she came I was aware of my words again, I was aware of her thoughts. She knew me. She knows I see her for who she really is. Her eyes were the same deep eyes of Sarah. But she wasn’t Sarah. It was as if Sarah had finally found death, as well, and had been reborn, wiser and freer than any lifetime she had possessed.

“How did you find me?”

“You found me, remember.” She spoke with words so bright, and devoid of the anger, rage, and revolution, which tainted her thoughts before. “But we always find each other. We both had to journey from death to life, and oh how beautiful it all is.” She stood, and came over to kiss my forehead. When her lips touched my overheated skin the sparking link was unimaginable. I was now linked to a world of knowledge I thought I had already found. I was free from believing in unnatural order, I grasped the transcendental truth of nature’s chaos, and I saw myself for what I really was. A human traveling to find home. I felt her lips leave my touch, but I was still in a plane of paralleled existence where time truly doesn’t exist, and the universe is full of whatever opportunities I sought. A breeze ruffled the tent, and it whooshed in as if to make its presence known, and then promptly exited guiding my eyes to a tree I hadn’t seen before. I could have sworn it was the same tree of my youth. Sarah was gone, I was long gone as well. So too were the countless people that helped me find life. It was always about the tree. Then with a nod of farewell to my old self I disappeared from this reality.

Filled with seatbacks, and opportunity, the pursuit of love, and knowledge is the journey of life.

Farewell to Motionlessness

There are worlds which have been, or could be. These worlds are mere reflections of the human condition. Through laughter, and sadness, elation, and exhaustion, wealth, and desperation we will feel how those living in these worlds are us while not at all. We will judge them, cry for them, and pray for them. It is because we all have a little bit of their souls, and journey in ourselves. They will show what has been, and could be along our shared trail called human experience. Take them as a warning, as motivation, and as family. We have all felt, and will feel the same hopes, and fears, and fall victim to both justice, and injustice. We will share the tears, and celebrations brought on by forces we cannot control but felt equally in the heart of humanity. Open your mind, body, and soul to learn from this story. This is not just one person’s story it is our collective story. A story of things which have been, and may be.

The meaning of life is that there is no meaning to be proven. It is a time of experience not a time for destiny. For if we try to find the meaning of life while we live we won’t know the answers till death. Therefore, our pursuit is in vain for it does not exist in our lifetime except from knowing death itself. There may be comfort to the meaning question, but what is its significance of knowing?

Less of the Allusion with Motion Towards Truth

After my great journey I was back home in Athens. Motionless, at the corner window of our farm, I stood with my father as we thought of our future selves. Having returned home I was humbled to exist in such a wonderful time as we looked onto the beauty of our farms, with its rows of olives, and oranges. As the sun set on the rich, untainted, soil we stopped our thoughts of time and prepared for the annual feast of Zeus, and a celebration of love, family, neighbors and humankind.

My father rested his hands on my shoulder, “Remember, what we spoke of is the truth. What you saw is a world of certain possibility.”

“But how can it be if it has yet to happen?”

Laughing with the calming reassurance that one day it would make sense, my father squeezed me with love, turned to help my mother prepare the lamb. Thinking he was gone, I continued to process all the lessons I had learned on my journey from life to death, only to be interpreted by the fading voice of my father’s presence, “Remember, my child, time doesn’t exist. Reality is what you make it, and truth is for the absolutists in this world. They bring their codes of good and evil, of truth and lies, of happiness and sadness. But they do not know the truth you one day will. Nothing is absolute, nothing is constant. All the world's a stage for those who accept chaos.” Like a ghost he was gone. Then as quickly as our time together began, so too did it end.

Thinking on all the things I learned, I was lost again to the mind, a different reality of existence separates from the material consciousness my farm’s existence shows. In the mind, time doesn’t exist. Time only exists in our conscious during the present moment of experience. The past and future does not exist, because we are not conscious of it, and, therefore, have no impact on its present form. Even though they do not exist in our present consciousness, our mind allows for us to recall observed experiences from the past, and using the emotions resurrected from those memories, we act towards a future our mind can also perceive.

By stating this many, would say that if I am consciously aware of not only my present, but also the past, and future, time must exist, because it is known. I would like to follow up that belief in asking a few questions. If one forgot a memory, which would be critical in one’s decision making, does that past even exist? If my emotional response to a memory is neutral, will I not forget the memory, thus, erasing a part of my past? If the whole world agreed to stop teaching the destruction of Genghis Khan, does it even exist as history? In response to these questions, some would say, just because it isn’t remembered doesn't mean it didn't exist. But did it? I mean if I chose to forget a regretful moment of my past, or altered the details of a past observed experiences, doesn’t my present existence take on a new form?

Time doesn’t exist absolutely, simply because it is not constant in its application to existence, whether it's the failings of one’s memories, biased opinion due to emotional, and physical pain, or predicting future outcomes. Time cannot be as defined in a material, absolute sense. Being inconsistent in its material application, is further proof of error in our material interpretation of time in our present knowledge. Rather, time is in actuality, like a film reel. Our understanding of time is merely a frame by frame mental snapshot of moments. There is no amalgamation of the numerous ‘present’ moments. Rather, they are separately observed, interpreted differently by the individual, and their perspective. Time, therefore, can be seen as nonexistent in a material, constant and fluid. Instead, it is in the mind of the beholder, and, thus, arises the error in its interpretive, philosophical definition, and material application. We have created a measurable system of time by observing the mechanics of nature, and our universe with respect to our rotation. This system has allowed for humanity to remain connected and communal. Yet if humanity ceased to exist the system of measurement we developed would also cease to exist, because it is a creation of the mind applying material definitions to moments of existence. This, also, indicates we could have developed a whole other system of measuring time based not on the sun but the waves, or climate, or constellations. Also, just like our concept of time, if one alteration occurs, let's say the Sun’s gravitational force alters the speed of our rotation, then we would have to re-measure its material application to humanity. Thus, the past, and future existence of time cannot be considered absolute. Time is not an absolute truth, but exists in the consciousness of our minds. It takes no constant, all encompassing, form of expression or definition. Time simply is the idea of a momentary snapshot pieced together by our minds. With time being the base for all of our knowledge, we can now see there is no consistency in our absolute truths.

I heard the chuckling of Kronos, our resident philosopher, at the front door greeting my mother, with what sounds like a bottle of red wine from this season’s first harvest. If time is like a moment carved into stone, many images of momentary existence, then is someone taking those frames, and making it our consciousness? Do we have free will to decide what each of our moments of present existence is? I believe so. It all depends on the how you see yourself. Our memories of the past are usually tainted by the emotional state we felt at that time. Sometimes those memories are like weights tied to our ankles, and it keeps us from making the most of every moment. It is with our knowledge of our past self we can mold the moment we experience. But it is with no emotional connection to those memories, but instead awareness of their existence from an observer's lookout, we can start to let our mind shape our present, and become free from absolutes of the past.

I see now, absolutes do not exist. My emotions are merely an expression of my survivalist nature. Time, and truth are interpretations of the same image of the material world, but not of the mind’s world. I hold knowledge of the past, to make way for the knowledge of the future. My purpose has nothing to do with me, but rather it is to humanity. We were given consciousness not to sulk and destroy, but to provide, and care for those who are blind to their false absolutes, and to oversee the safety of all living things which do not know of their existence, like I do. It’s as if we were anointed with consciousness to look over the land. The earth is humanities garden, and it is my purpose to keep it in balanced health so to ensure my species, and our world’s immortality. I am to learn the ways of humanity, and nature so to be validated at the guardian of infinite existence.

I see our neighbor, Sarah, and her husband, Apo, walking towards our home. They both wave as I realize what time it is. The sun has set, and here I was lost in the darkness of my mind’s reality. Many may say I get lost in the mind’s reality, but I saw that is where the answers to our existence lies. Yes, I think much and often, but I am not over thinking. For there is such a thing as over think, it’s called doubt. Before my journey, I was constantly over thinking, and asking myself the question, who am I. Now I realize the question shouldn't have been who am I, but rather it should be, what am I?

I am humanity;

I am the guardian of life;

I am immortal;

I am truth.

I simply am.

---

* It is possible that my future self is writing the script for my past self. Therefore, my present self can write both, past and future, scripts simultaneously.

Prologue

There once was a man who fell into a huge pit and he couldn’t find a way out. He screamed, cried and pleaded to God for safety from his present pit existence. Soon a friend walked but and he screamed up for the friend to go get help. Instead the friend jumped in the pit with the man. “What are you doing? Now we are both stuck in this pit!” said the man. But the friend looked at him, smiled, and said, “Yes, but I have been down here before and I know the way out.”

Right now humanity finds itself in a pit of pain, and we can’t find a way out. Humanity is suffering. Our soul has been either lost or found by darkness. We fear, we hate, we fight, and we harass. We are divided tribes among nations; clashing cultures within countries. Our soul has been exposed to vulnerabilities, vanity and victimhood. We are lost, but now impossible to see freedoms face. Our soul seeks faith in fortune and fame. Yet, we still cry the same tears, whether a pattern within an individual or emotion’s sensations. I know all this because I too suffer with humanity. Want to know something else? I also know the way out.

First, let me say this, I am no spiritualist, academic scholar, or philosopher. I, like you, am an innocent victim of our present predicament. All knowledge I discovered, like a mad scientist, was in pursuit of answers to our world’s problems. What I found led me to the following hypothesis. It is possible that my future self is writing the script for my past self. Therefore, my present self can write both, past and future, scripts simultaneously.