She stands at the kitchen sink for a full three minutes before lowering her gaze at the dozen or so dirty dishes. She chooses the first one at random, picks up the sponge, and commences another mundane routine. The coffee slowly drips into its glass pot. The morning show blares on in the background but nobody is paying it any attention. In the adjacent living-room sits Uninterested Husband who has zero indiction at what she’s feeling or much less will feel once she’s finally left alone for the day. With the children sent to school and the husband off to work, she will inevitably slip deeper down into a depression nobody knows about—, not even her therapist, because after all, she wears one hell of a smile. When did everything snowball into such a sad truth? The years seemed to pass by so fast when she was younger and loving life, then suddenly, they slowed to a crawl. Thighs grew. Hips got curvier. Husband stopped touching her at night. What is a gal to do but continue onward with the show. She snaps out of her daydreaming and shuts off the sink faucet with force, already plotting out her next post about such trivial tasks like washing dishes first thing in the morning. The only empowerment she ever feels anymore is through other people’s words, other people’s opinions—, for her own ran out long, long ago. Digital mind-games meant for middle schoolers, that yet, seem to fit her like a glove. Is it any wonder her friends seemed to disappear one by one? Her memories of a happier time, too. What keeps her interested nowadays is the mental static she experiences in-between concrete thoughts. Through the wavy and fuzzy lines are shapes of faces she still sees in her dreams. Faces of former friends, lovers, and reflections of her own self in the mirror; carefree and full of joy. She begins cutting the potatoes for tonight’s dinner with delicate accuracy as she catches herself staring at the sharp blade longer than she’s supposed to. That…, instrument of endless misery but momentary release as well. It seems her anti-depressants aren’t really working today. This is no good. How will the quiet hours ever pass? How will this very moment? With untold regret and nothing else. That’s how.

Time is running out. I need to be at O’Hare International Airport in under ninety minutes. To go that far west, I should first head south toward the Loop and then take the Blue Line. Everything is a blur—, the studio walls, the commotion outside, the last twenty-some years. Everything blurs by. Michigan Avenue is one long, concrete-runway. It reaches the sunset and then some. Police are posted at most corners, beggars escape the wind within random alcoves, and tourists slow down foot-traffic while trying to take the perfect picture. Still—, it’s the epitome of style. Not just because everything is so designer and so glamorous and so chic—, but because it’s what keeps us coming back. The sun, the shine, the next step, the possibility that one day we too can say “we made it.” Couples exit expensive restaurants and reach for each other’s arms, interlocking them as they set off down the street toward a taxicab or café. Either way, it’s a charming sight and one that invites us to see ourselves in that exact position. We keep moving. I hear the announcer say that the Michigan & Lake stop is coming up so I pull the cord, stand up, and ready myself to walk toward the Washington station. Once there, I board the Blue Line and sit in the first open seat I see. The speeding train interweaves through the clusters of structures like a massive steel thread. If only I could reach out beyond the sealed windows, my fingertips would be able to graze the bricks themselves. Everything I’d learned from books and movies was reduced down to mere reference points when I finally moved out into the city. Nothing prepares you for the real world like stepping out into the real world. Of course it can be beautiful. Of course the sunshine beaming off of the stage at Millennium Park is perfect. But it can also be cold. The winters are rough. Ice and sleet cover the streets and everything is grey. Not a pure white with freshly fallen snow, no. It’s marred from the tar off the wheels that run themselves over the slush and dirt of an urban landscape. But even then—, something beautiful can be found within it. Something compelling. Like the city is irresistible even in mid-January, even with the dreariness of unforeseeable blizzards, because after all, it is home. It’s where you sleep and shower and see how far you can go without feeling like you’ve been left behind to fend for yourself, since here, everyone fends for themselves. Time keeps ticking. The rooftops drift by in the late afternoon sun. The ones right past the fiberglass, quickly. The ones way behind in the background, slowly. Either way, they all drift by into the recesses of our memories and only reappear once we pass through again. Coded languages are graffitied onto the stairwells of large complexes and ciphers onto the sides of small apartment buildings. They speak of some type of spiritual revolution while prayer flags are strewn through the streets—, fallen and forgotten. I don’t pretend to understand, I just accept it. I begin to think back to yesterday. The scene floods in like waves of scorching sunlight; thick fumes drift up and through the atmosphere as we take our seats, speak in pieces of broken slang, and seek peace itself. This is nighttime—, personified in two people. Stars sparkle in our eyes. The Windy City’s air courses through our veins and makes its way up toward our brains as the name stays on the very tips of our tongues; “Chicago...,” she says with such elegance. We keep moving. Time keeps ticking. The world keeps blurring by.

I suddenly thrust my eyes open and there you stand; beautiful and barely showing a trace of how torn apart you truly are at this very second. I try shaking my head but I don’t think you even notice. You hold in your hand the key to everything. Everything and everyone. But you don’t even realize it. All you see is the glorious shine off the crystalline curvature. All you see is..., forbidden knowledge. Pure and simple. Again, I try shaking my head, slower this time. It’s all for nothing as your eyes widen beyond their usual lines. It’s increasingly clear that you’ve already made peace with your decision. I see you bring the apple up to your lips as you slowly part them open. You force both eyes shut as you clench your teeth down, rip away a piece of the fruit and begin to chew. The smallest smirk takes shape at the corner of your mouth as you hold out your hand toward me, beckoning me to do the same. Out of nowhere, a whisper; “Make your choice.” Time stands still. Like the edges of the universe stop their endless intertwining and prepare to unravel instead. A massive amount of emotions build themselves up on my shoulders and I instantly feel the weight of a million touches, kisses, and soft whispers from outside sources. I don’t know where they come from, I can’t pinpoint their origins, and still, I feel every corner and crevasse of their vibrations like they are my very own. I know you’re at the heart of it all, that they are all from you and for you simultaneously. So now..., staring into this sort of boundless abyss with you at its center, what will I do? What can I do but weigh the world itself against your very embrace? I don’t think twice before taking the apple and biting into its very core. A slight chill shivers up my spine as I notice a dark cloud out in the far distance, almost floating in our direction. Something that can only be described as dense shadows begin forming in the peripherals of my eyes but immediately disappear upon my turning to look at them. The world suddenly feels different. You continue to stand there with a forced smile on your face. Something like sadness colored in bright overtones which can’t hide the true nature underneath—, pure regret. We don’t speak. We only look at one another with confused conviction—, that this is the moment everything changes. We can’t see how far out our decision’s consequences will reach —, though we feel its infinite grasp on our world either way. I suddenly begin to feel fresh tears falling down my face for the first time. And as for you? You slowly begin drifting away into the darkness surrounding us—, as I follow—, tragically, eternally, lovingly.

To devour—, and willingly allow yourself to become devoured—, completely, is truly, a unique experience for us humans indeed. Unique in how the human spirit is unable to bear the weight of such trauma but only once. No matter the degree of self-hatred any mind may potentially reach, none is equipped with the possibility of repeatedly placing itself on a platter for another's digestion. Like death; it is irreversible. The blessed are spared from ever feeling it at all. We—, who know its face, memorized its hollow sockets where cloud-filled eyes hang in the shadows and can draw their dark swirls from memory—, are forever cursed to feel its warm breath on our napes. Unique in that it isn't solely to satisfy a gluttonous urge of gorging our spiritual stomachs with another's soul, but rather, a craving to consume. Utterly and without pause for logic or reasoning, to consume everything. Their deepest dreams, worst nightmares, most highest-held hopes; it all must be swallowed—, no, choked down! Unique in that much like Escher's Drawing Hands, it isn't enough to stand in pride while ingesting their very oneness. They themselves must be doing the same in return, wearing an identical smirk of self-gratification that we've got permanently plastered upon our own lips. Unique in that we simultaneously become both The Lover and The Loved. And it’s within that exact line of logic where we find our ability to continue sleeping when the sun sets at night. The guilt cancels itself out. We offered up our own bodies for consumption and without hesitation, they eviscerated our layers like lions, one by one, clawing and tearing and ripping us apart, forever digging deeper down until they reached the most hidden compartment of our hearts we hadn't even known we were hiding under so much soil and dirt. Just like we'd reached theirs. A mutual feast. Unique in how once that specific door is opened, it can never be closed again. The heart won't allow it. The soul will change its spiritual composition from that day forward, not unlike the drug addict, we are never the same. Our eyes see through a new lens now. It's a darker shade, it makes the light harder to see, to feel. Harder, but not impossible. We must look more thoroughly for it. Somewhere, it's still shining down in our direct line of vision, somewhere that's a bit tougher to see through the newly descended smoke and ash and dense fog, but it's there. It's there and if we squint and remember that what it means to be human is both tragic and beautiful, then when we do occasionally re-find it and feel it once more on our skin, its warmth is that much deeper, it carries that much more meaning and purpose. Precisely because we know how much darkness and frigid cold there truly is all around us, waiting. Waiting for the doubt to creep back inside and whisper through the muddled trenches of our memories; "was there ever really any light at all?"