Side-street with no name

As the scorching king of the western sky recedes into oblivion, I see the crooked shadow of time looming over the supine, the tired, the lost souls of a precious generation whose map was drawn for them prior to their birth.

(I am walking down East Hastings.)

The curtain is closed, the arrival of another night finalized. I see the homeless gathering around a street corner. They mumble things in an incoherent tongue, looking at me with what seems to be a burning hatred in their eyes. This disgust (or perhaps pity) aimed at the outsider dominates their sense of social decorum, as all four of them make the collective decision to shift their gaze toward me while they speak, rather than following the convention of looking at the other conversing party. I stand across the street and return their gaze, feeling guilty more than anything, playing with the loose change in my coat pocket and the idea of offering these poor souls all my possessions. But before I can make up my mind I see their figures fade deeper into shadows until they disappear, and I cannot help but feel that this last act of immediate escape is a display of mockery, their way of telling me that no matter how much I try, I won't be able to feel their pain.

(The side-street around the corner of which they gathered has no sign and no name.)

I walk a few blocks down, stepping over broken syringes and candy wrappers and used condoms and more homeless men and women shivering in their sleeping bags until an unwelcome sight brings me to a halt. A woman dashes across the street soon as she sees the headlights of a vehicle appear, causing the driver to panic and the car to swerve. This is a ritual that I have witnessed these people preform many a time in the past; it is often followed by the individual yelling profanities at the driver, or spitting on the ground as the car accelerates to its destination. Tonight is no exception.
The woman stands there long after the panicked cry of the car engine is absorbed by silence, and as time's looming shadow grows taller to engulf her entire being, she suddenly crumbles to her feet and begins to sob, howling like a lost wolf who longs to be reunited with her pack.

With the image of the crying woman still haunting my thoughts, I increase my speed and saunter past convenient stores with tilted neon signs, decrepit buildings with broken windows, garbage cans ravaged by desperate scavengers, expired coupons and lottery tickets strewn about the sidewalk, and many other insignificant anecdotes of our era that only a passerby with their head down all the time would notice. Suddenly I sense tears welling up in my eyes. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, right outside a burger joint with a sign that says "Open 24 Hours". I look to the right and catch a glimpse of my dim reflection. This leaves no room for further doubt: I am overwhelmed with foreign emotions, and the tears that ceaselessly stream down my cheeks attest to this fact. I become fascinated with the image in the glass in which I can see clearly my own slanted center, and it is at this moment (faced with the reality that I may be just as broken as the people I feel sad for) where I begin to understand the power of self-loathing, and how it robs the individual of the ability to empathize while on the outset masquerading as a manifestation of empathy. Confronted with the weaknesses and rampant desires that rule over my own soul, I am rendered powerless by self-loathing - neither selfish enough to save myself, nor selfless enough to help others - a state of absolute stagnation.

The presence of darkness is now complete, a blanket beneath the warmth of which lie all that one fears and all the things they hold dear. Finally able to break out of my stupor, I too squirm under the same blanket. I assume the same posture as before - heads tilted down, hands in my coat pockets, back straight, shoulders slouched - and resume my way down the sidewalk. After that moment of random clarity by the shop window, it is difficult to focus on one's surroundings. It's as if minions of hell are at work to build a wall around me, and each step that I take is tantamount to another brick falling into its place. I take my hands out of their warm sheath and stare into my palms. Will I ever to be able to use these hands to tear down the walls that separate human beings from one another? I feel my bottom eyelids dampen again at the mere thought of leaving the oppressed and the weak behind. This is another trick of self-loathing, to strip one of all the power and control they may have possessed to help those in need, turning all their thoughts instead toward an inner battle with an enemy that refuses to move or attack, but nevertheless casts an all-encompassing shadow over the soul. Self-loathing, in other words, turns the human being into a cruel beast, and I can already sense the beginning of my transformation.

                      

I am now sitting at a table inside a motel room, my body swathed in red neon and smoke. I look out the window and see two young girls leaning against a green dumpster. One is holding a needle in her hand while the other tries to find a vein to stick said needle into (from where I sit I cannot make out the details of their facial features, only that they are both petite, and even from my vantage point I can see their rib-cage poking through their t-shirts). Then the one holding the needle kneels down facing the other girl, who begins to nod as if agreeing with words I am unable to hear. A couple moments later the one in possession of the needle sticks the pointy end into the other girl's foot's vein which, I can only assume, causes her to wince at first and then relinquish control. I see her head tilting backwards. In my mind I picture her eyes flutter, hear her deep sighs of relief echoing through the desolate alleyways. I start to wonder if she, too, has been a victim of self-loathing, finding solace only in her heroine, her hero and her eternal lover. Soon as this thought claims dominance over my mind, I see the girl who subjected herself to the needle begin to convulse, each one of her limbs dancing to a different  spastic rhythm. The needle's provider seems to be passed out, for she shows no reaction to the convulsing body by her side, whose lips are most likely turning an alarming tint of blue. I raise my right hand to block half the view and stare into my palm. I feel powerless in the face of other people's suffering, and even more powerless against my own. Sorry little girl, I will not be able to help you or a thousand others fighting the same fate, at least not tonight.

(I close the curtains and try to get some sleep.)

But then comes the tough part: deciding where to sleep. There are a number of corners I can choose from, or I could take the obvious route and sleep on the bed. As I continue to weigh these options, a sense of satisfaction slithers into the deepest corners of my consciousness. It is true that I am indeed a prisoner, and maybe I myself am responsible for creating this cage, but even here, confronted with the most basic and essential conflicts that gnaw at the soul, I am the one choosing my own corner. Then how can one think himself powerless if the ability to choose, regardless of how hopeless the situation may seem, is not taken away from him? Once the power of choice is realized, there is nothing that can cause humanity to falter, even if this choice is as insignificant as picking which corner to retreat to, for it is a corner of my own choosing, and no amount of self-loathing can take that away from me.

(Before I doze off I pick up my phone and dial 911, reporting what I just witnessed outside my window.)

(Somewhere faraway the wall begins to crack, and through that crack sunlight pours inside, illuminating the hopeful face of a prisoner.)