What is this shadow, or glimmer, or point of light amidst chaos;

where the body and the mind

are fortified by resolve while tossed in a sea of fear;

the soul, emboldened by love while trudging through

a swamp of hate;

and the heart, daring onward with courage against

the forces of cowardice,

makes the essence of humanity shine, sacred,

in a world that thrives, profane, on things mundane?

Whatever drives the soul of a man toward the profound,

and away from the obscene,

does not drive me (or has not for a while).

No, it drives me into the arms of wickedness instead.

Whatsoever makes one love, and not hate,

does not abide inside me.

Where there should be love,

I would hate instead.

Where there should be hate,

I have only love.

But this is nothing new. In all of history, from the beginning to the end, evil has been our eternal companion. Hate, anger, pettiness – these things have always been here; have always been a part of us. So this is nothing new; I am nothing new; my problems are nothing new.

The bruising on my stomach had faded after several weeks. It was early December and I was busy drinking when possible, studying when necessary, though it was never necessary, and cursing at the world outside my bedroom window. Out there, in the world, the sky was persistently grey. The city was constantly grimy. I was relentlessly grim. The soul-chilling cold of winter was still held off by the remnants of autumn, and so in place of snow there was rain.

And the rain fell in hardened clumps, frigid and stinging the skin like thousands of tiny daggers. It did not bother me much. Nor did the dampness in my bones bother me. Nor did my unwashed matted hair bother me. Nor did the coming-and-going breathing sounds of the cold west wind bother me.

For me everything was dead and dying. I saw a newborn baby on the streetcar, held tight and warm in its loving mother's arms, and it was already deteriorating right there before me. A teenage girl sitting on the steps of her high school, trying to look more adult with her face caked by mascara, already wore signs of old age. A middle-aged man, working hard to support his family, was just a heart-attack in the making. Death was just giving them a few begrudging days of grace.

So one day, between the drinking and the bouts of depression, I ventured outside for a stroll in the grey, despicable autumn day. An autumn day which seemed to mock and pity me. The sun's rays seemed to sneer at me with its garish yellow-blue beams peering down between the clouds. It laughed at me by illuminating the life all around me. By pointing out all these living things, the sun only reminded me of her absence.

As I walked around aimlessly that day, as the rain poured in spiky little daggers, as the sun beamed down with its hideously patronizing beams, and as Death punched the clock on everyone and everything, I found myself absorbed and oblivious.

I stepped onto the first-floor balcony of the dealer and tapped lightly on his window. After a minute, he peered out from behind the curtains bleary-eyed and confused. He opened the window a crack. He looked around cautiously.

"What you doing here?" he asked. I awkwardly smiled at this man, who I must have awoken from a deep sleep. "What time is it?"

"It's three in the afternoon," I said.

The dealer shook his head, and said, "Are you crazy? Coming here in the middle of the day? When do you think I get my sleep?"

"I don't know," I said, staring at his blood-red eyes.

"Well come back later," he snapped, like the Heroin-Wizard of Oz. He closed the window abruptly.

I knocked on the window again, and he opened it, clearly aggravated. "What!"

"She's dead," I said.

The dealer looked at me, thinking for a second. "Who?"

"Jen."

He frowned a little, and said, "Aw, I'm sorry boy. That sucks."

"She overdosed."

"Tisk-tisk," said the dealer, sucking his teeth. "Poor girl."

"Don't you care?"

"Yeah, I care," he said, smiling sheepishly, "but what can I do? I just sell it. I'm not responsible for misuse."

"Oh my God!" I yelled, waving my fists frantically, "What the fuck are you!?"

The dealer suddenly looked very worried and stepped back from the window.

"Okay okay," he said from the shadows. "Be quiet."

"What?" I asked, leaning my head inside.

"Here," said the dealer, holding out a small bag. "Take this. It's free. It's on me. It'll help you relax."

Speechless, I took the bag from him and stuffed it into a pocket.

"Now go home," he said sympathetically, "and try to rest. Okay?"

"Okay," I said. The window slid shut quietly.

I walked toward home. My mind was reeling at what had just happened. As I walked – wandered about – mostly aimlessly, I was thinking about how I wish we could live in peace; how I wish that people would see that diversity creates beauty, strength, and magic. Oh! How empty in spirit would the world be if it were monotonous and all the same? How droning would the sounds of life be if we were all British, and all the world took tea in the afternoon?

So I walked toward home, passing by every other neighborhood but my own. The weather had turned suddenly warm, so I decided to take a rest in a small park that was nestled just past the north-east corner of Church and Wellesley. The park was nearly hidden by the Victorian homes that surrounded it on three sides. It was quite lovely, spacious considering its small size, well kept, and filled with happy faces. People were out walking their dogs, lovers were strolling holding hands, and the curious stood and read the names on the small HIV memorial.

I sat at a bench that was placed against the brick wall of one of the old houses. With my back to the wall, I was able to see everybody's comings-and-goings and make observations on the fundamental nature of humanity.

A young, handsome teen boy came by and sat on the grass. He had foundation on his face, and his eyebrows seemed to be very well groomed. He spread out his jacket beneath him before he got down on it, and lounged back on one arm. He stared at the sky, seemingly looking at the clouds and the gray-blue autumn sky. He didn't seem at all cold, and he didn't seem to mind the damp ground beneath his jacket. After he was finished staring at the sky, the boy pulled out a small book from his pocket. He dove into it with enthusiasm, and he smiled and frowned and gasped in time with the events of the book.

Two older men, maybe in their fifties, went over to the memorial. The shorter one, who was a little pudgy, and who wore square glasses and a ponytail, leaned into the monument, extended his hand, and brushed his finger along one of the names on the plaque. The taller man – a muscular, macho looking guy – put his arm on his companion's shoulders. They lingered there for a few moments, and left slowly.

I saw several women come into the park and talk loudly and carry on jovially. They all wore jeans and leather jackets. They laughed, slapped each other on the back, and seemed to be having a great time. I couldn't understand why they seemed so happy. It was too early to be drinking. Then from around the corner came two more women, one dressed in a tuxedo, and the other in a white gown. The rest of the women cheered and hollered at those two, who were tightly holding each other like little children.

The sun was setting and people started to drift out of the park. Even the handsome young teen boy took off for someplace unknown. It was getting cool again and the wind was picking up. I felt a wave of lonely sadness come over me. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my bag of drugs.

It'll help you relax.

I put a few pills in my mouth and swallowed them down with some excess spit. I laid down on the bench and closed my eyes, trying to force away the sadness. But instead of relaxing blackness behind my shut eyes, images began to appear. Faces. No. One face. Jen.

Oh! There she is. There you are again! So beautiful. Beautiful!

I bolted upright and opened my eyes. And there in front of my eyes I saw all sorts of colors, sparks, and stars. I swooned and tumbled to the ground.

I lay on the ground, insensate for a while. I woke up when I felt rain running up into my nostrils. I sat up and propped myself against the bench. My head was spinning furiously, and I felt terribly nauseous. I pulled my trembling body fully upright and leaned back on the brick wall. Hot-and-cold sweats poured down my body, so I didn't need the rain to make me wet. I decided it would be a good idea to go home. My shivers faded as I walked, and I began to feel like I was walking on marshmallow pavement.

I bounced along the sidewalk, southbound, oblivious to the people all around me. I think I was counting the raindrops when I realized that I was 'one with the universe'. Then I walked into a lamppost. It stopped me in my tracks, but I didn't feel anything at all.

To my left was a door, and above the door hung the sign, "Bulls." I Figured it might be a good idea to rest for a bit, so I went in. The door was thick and heavy and I barely got it open. It was dark inside. Smoke drifted thickly about five feet above the floor, and a large-screen television was showing soccer in the back of the room.

There was the constant murmuring sound of people talking. It was toasty-warm and comforting in this place. The walls were papered dark brown with orange trimming. It was an odd color combination, and for some reason my nausea got worse whenever I looked at the walls.

The bar looked nice enough, so I sat at a stool. The bartender came over.

"Hi!" he said, cheery and friendly. "I haven't seen you here before."

I tried to focus on his eyes, "Uh? Haven't been here before?" I echoed back.

The bartender put his arm on my shoulder. "Are you okay? You don't look so good." I couldn't even feel the weight of his hand.

"Oh," I said, struggling to speak clearly. "Hard day."

"Why don't I bring you something warm to drink?"

"Okay." The bartender walked away from the bar and passed through the swinging kitchen doors. There were big portholes on the doors, just like the ones from those old 1950s diners. In a few minutes he came back with a steaming mug. "Drink it," he said, placing the mug gently in front of me.

"What is it?"

"Hot apple cider," he said, smiling.

"With whisky?" I asked.

The bartender shook his head and little blonde ringlets of hair bobbed around. "You don't look like you're in any shape to be drinking. Trust me."

"Okay," I said. I put the cider to my lips. It was sweet and tangy. The cinnamon caused a very slight burn in my throat. The aroma of apples was soothing. It went down smooth and it seemed to calm my stomach.

A man sat beside me all nestled up to the bar. He asked for a Molson Canadian. He was in his early fifties, well groomed, and dressed in a single-breasted suit. His hair was cut short and neat. He held the beer bottle gently in his hands and smiled with delight as he sipped it. I heard his delicate voice enter my right ear and echo around in my head.

"Hi," he said. I turned my head and my vision followed in blurry trails. He man looked at me and seemed to be concerned.

"Rough day?" he asked.

I nodded.

"You look like you really need to unwind," he said, smiling at me and squinting slightly.

"Uh-huh," I said.

"Oh, my name is Peter."

Peter extended his hand gently. It blurred as it approached me. I reached for his hand, almost missed it, and sort of shook his wrist.

"Boy, you have had a rough day," Peter said with a smile.

"Oh, yeah," I said with slurred syllables, "oh yeah."

Peter looked me up and down, and cocked his head curiously. "Wait," he said. "You're all wet."

I nodded, and my brain felt like it bounced off the back of my skull.

"What happened?"

"It rained."

Peter shook his head. "Well why don't you dry off at my place?" he asked, still smiling.

I raised my eyebrows, and asked "What?"

"You can change into some of my clothes," said Peter generously, "and stick yours in the dryer."

"I don't know."

"I've got a fifty inch projection screen, a pool table, and drinks."

"Well, okay."

So we left the bar, and in a few seconds we had walked around the corner and into his third-floor apartment.

Peter's home was bright and cheery. It was awash with earth tones and oranges and rusty reds. His big projection screen was there in the living room. On either side of the screen was a wine rack filled with different colored bottles. There was a glass coffee table positioned six or seven feet in front of the television. On the table was a beautiful centerpiece spread, full of late-blooming flowers, branches, pinecones and other autumn items. Around the centerpiece the were several hand-painted coasters that depicted pastoral scenes. There was also a pewter napkin holder, and beside that a few copies of Gentleman's Quarterly.

The walls were covered in art that was meticulously arranged so as not to seem cluttered. Each piece was illuminated by an accent light. The rest of the room was lit up with a soft yellow glow and the whole place just seemed warm. All combined together – the lights, the art, the coffee table, the wine rack – his living room seemed like a cross between an art gallery and a posh restaurant.

"Welcome to my home," Peter said. "Take off your clothes."

I looked at him curiously. His face reflected the energetic colors of the room. His cheeks seemed rosier, his eyes seemed to sparkle more, and his chin seemed more chiseled. He just seemed more alive.

"Oh," Peter said, blushing. "I guess I should get you a change of clothes."

Peter disappeared down the hallway into his bedroom. I heard him rummaging through his clothes drawers. He returned momentarily with a pair of baggy jogging pants and an oversized t-shirt.

"How's this?" he asked, handing them to me.

"Okay," I said. I walked into the bathroom to change. He had one of those washrooms where everything was new and shiny. Small vanity lights went up and down each side of the mirror. I took off my damp clothes. I looked at my naked self in the mirror. Somehow I seemed invisible.

"Here," I said. I handed Peter my wet outfit. I looked so funny in his clothes. He was quite a bit bigger than me, so I sort of looked shrunken in his jogging pants and t-shirt. Peter took my clothes and put them in his dryer.

"Want a drink?" Peter asked, pointing at his wine rack.

"Sure."

Peter went over to the rack and inspected the bottles. "What would you like?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Merlot?" Peter asked. I shrugged. "Chardonnay?" I turned up my hands in indecision. "Pinot noir?" I stared at him unknowingly. "Okay, pinot noir."

He pulled a red bottle from the rack and took two glasses from above the rack. He brought them to the coffee table.

"Here we go," he said, pouring some wine into each glass. "Come sit down."

So I sat beside Peter, facing the wide screen television. He handed one of the glasses to me.

"Cheers," Peter said.

"Cheers," I said. He touched his glass against mine and took a sip.

"Want to watch Star Wars?"

"Okay," I said, even though I knew that it would be hard to see the screen in my condition.

"Oh! Let me get the cheese spread." He rushed into the kitchen and returned after a second with a large tray of different cheeses, all arranged rather intentionally.

The opening scene of Star Wars came on. The large Imperial Star Destroyer pursued and captured the smaller Rebel corvette. "Now this is the life," said Peter.

As lasers fired and soldiers fell onscreen, I felt that this really was the life. Indeed.

Peter got my clothes for me after Star Wars was over. He gave me his phone number and said to give him a call. He lent me his umbrella because it was raining. As soon as I stepped out of his apartment my thoughts returned to their old concerns. Thus:

That night the rain poured down in spiky little clumps of daggers, Death punched the clock on everyone and everything, and the cold west wind breathed at me, whispered at me, and tried to remind me of something, but I couldn't quite make out the whispers. The body and mind, shorn and strewn, are fortified by resolve. The soul trudges, but is emboldened. The heart dares onward – against its own good sense.

Next chapter should be online on 11/23/2015