This city has no spirit. No life. If you come here you are alone, a pilgrim in an alien and desolate place. Don't be fooled by the others here. They look like you, sure, but they're little more than shades. Cars buzz by with one or two at a time all pretending to be real. Pretending to be alive. You can't call this living, though. Wake up, get in your car, listen to a blur of sound, go to the office, leave, sleep, and do it all over again. Forget what makes today unique from yesterday and how tomorrow will even be worthwhile. Sobriety is a commodity too. You keep the flask in your pocket and the pills locked up when something important comes up. Otherwise, nothing's wrong with having your head in the clouds. Doesn't make you any worse than the others here, right? They're just shades. You? You're passing the time until something worthy come up. Until you have a reason to be sober, to be on point and really give your all. Until that point you indulge. A sip here, a puff there, all to shorten the trip and muffle the noise.
Tonight feels different. Just a feeling, no proof really except your hand hesitating as it reaches for the bottle. You stand at your window a while and look over the street below. Everything is lit, cars are parked in front of store-fronts and apartment complexes, but something is missing. Something is different. After a while it hits you like and your stomach sinks. There is no life here. Not the way you describe after a drink,
literally. The streets below are completely empty. Street lights blink, but nobody's waiting and nobody's going. You look across the way to other windows. Maybe a dozen floors, maybe hundreds of windows, maybe thousands of faces -- all of them looking out just like you. Suddenly you feel dread. What have you missed, and worse, what did everyone else miss too? A smaller feeling bites at your conscience too. The countless nights demeaning everyone else, your shades, and here you are in just the same place.
National Public Radio is your first choice. Once you realize Vice News was your second, you wonder about your politics. The voice is wrong for the time. Every word is more chaotic and confused than the last. You never quite catch what's wrong, but something is. Something is very wrong. You are used to wordy, calm conversations paired well with chamomile and a bit of pot. This exactly not that. Buzzwords like evacuation and ground zero have your heart beating like you'd ran a mile. With all this happening you wonder about your friends. First, and you are fully aware most selfishly, why didn't they call you? Second, perhaps to make things right, if they're well enough to even call. Your hand falls to your hip. Nothing. You reach into the pocket of your hoodie, also to no avail. When you retrace your steps you find the thin, black little thing flashing. With a tap the screen brightly displays
You have 6 Missed Calls, 6 Unread Messages, and 6... The screen blacks out before you can finish. You're ready to slam the thing against the table, but lucky for the phone, the screen turns a deep green. White text appears across the screen with a simple instruction.
Staring at the glowing screen you feel a great pressure. A powerful throbbing begins behind your eyes, your thoughts simplifying as the pain leaves room for only a single thought. The realization that you face the greatest challenge one can --
a choice, a decision, the very essence of life. This city might have no spirit, but you do. You can choose. You must choose.