text: Recently I woke in a city park. It is very cold here and everyone looks miserable. There is some relation of hopelessness in the eyes of passersby, yet it is relayed with confidence. Sometimes even swagger, I suppose. They are at home in their misery. Is this how I feel? Is this how I look? So many memories are lost to me this time. How do I know such things and how do I know where I stand in relation to them? I suppose these are the questions of life. Still, the interest builds. I do not know how old I am or how long I have been like this. Did I know my childhood before? Was it recent? How old do I even look? I am afraid to find out. Maybe next time I will think myself young again. Something of hope is helpful in my journeys, like a dim candle to illuminate a distance forward. I am not sure how I know this, but it rings true. I will permit this hope to stay. Exploration offers reward, so I explore. Perhaps the reward will be mundane, but just as well will it be rewarding. Someone of little material and value as myself would be hard pressed to find any reward malignant. Anyone should be hard to find a reward malignant, I suppose. Does cold have a way to clean the air, or does it rob the lungs of something to give the illusion of cleanness? No matter. I enjoy such weather because the air feels free of polluted encumbrance. Why should it matter the source of this attribute? Upon inspection, it would seem my original assessment is correct. Destitution plagues the city. Whether affluent or poor, tall or short, each neighborhood treats interlopers with prejudice if they do not belong by shared purpose. Each prison intent on pursuing rivalry with some others in some way. How long it must take for anyone to leave them, to seek new life and grow, when such systems of feedback and reinforcement permeate the world. Such is madness. Such is life. I am searching for an embassy, an island of indifference where I may find sustenance if not shelter, when a curiosity skews my path. A woman walks alone with bread seeking others to share it with. I find myself approaching her. “You’ve seen better days. Would you like a sandwich?” Who is this silver in the night? I must have asked as I received her offer. She tells me she is no one, or at least this is what I hear. Something is different about her eyes. Have I seen this before? “Can I help you in any way?” Eyes of compassion. It has been so long since I recognized such a character. Posture confident but burdened, pained and sympathetic. Who are you, to contradict yourself with blazon grace? “I am anyone really, but most of all I’m me.” Have I heard her right? These words make no sense but carry weight. “I would like to know you.” She beckons me to join her. Conversation persists like a polluted river, perturbed and unclear, yet I am determined to discover her. I have found something of worth in the ashes of this place, who shines and knows her own value. I do not even know myself. What has she discovered that I have failed to? What has she understood that I cannot? “What do you think of the world?” We have been offering food to others. This is a regular route for her and others treat her kindly. “I think there’s a lot of pain. I think there’s not a lot of hope.” Both of these are clear to me, but it occurs that I have not often found another who opines such as myself. “What do you want to do about it?” “There’s a lot I want to do, and more that I wish I had done. Now I’m just doing what I can. I used to be a mother, but times are hard.” She is eager to share herself, and I understand her words with clarity. “What changed?” “I made a lot of mistakes thinking they were right. Anything is the right thing when it’s all you can think to do. This city is my home, but it was never home for my children. They each found their place, and I have to find my own way again. It’s hard to stop caring for others, though, after you realize it’s all you have.” “Why?” It seems the only method of preserving the dialogue. “Everything in the world is either broken or hurting. The most we can do is try to help people who are hurting. Maybe they can find a place to be at home, at least.” “What do you mean?” She takes her time before continuing. I begin to accept the silence as an old friend when she returns to me. Somehow there is more sympathy in her eyes. It is the sign of tension, forcing outwards a nature which would prefer internal safety and semblance of comfort. A familiar nature. “Anywhere you look, there is pain. It is all we see and all we talk about. An entire generation knows nothing but anguish. The other day, I heard that children set a homeless man on fire so they could share it with friends. A broken world is no place for children. They will grow to only know hurt, or become just as broken as the world that raised them.” Truth is often miserable. However, I find myself internally twisted. When conversation is so elusive, I cannot fathom the possibility of neglecting this instance. Yet it pains her to relay understanding to me. Is this the cost of wisdom? “All we can do is move forward. If I don’t see you again, I hope you find your home.” She leaves me some place, having guided me to a shelter. A certain quantity of time has elapsed without my knowledge. Am I leaving so soon? How long have I been here, anyways? \- I am not in a city this time. Far from any city, I think. The road I wonder is dirt and rock, reaching trees all around beg for sunlight to satiate their endless hunger. Am I a tree, now? Have I forgotten so much that my time among mankind is eclipsed by a new dawn? Something begs me forward. It is clear to me now that I am on the verge of death, a dangerous absence of water pains me in body and mind. Someone beckons me forward... Soon I wake in the company of another. A man of direct character, eyes beaming with interest. We are beyond the limits of a city, and the weather is fair. “Hello, wayward traveler. What inspired your movement here?” I seem to be in much better condition. This man seems to have committed himself to my safety. What effort did he exert for someone unknown to him? Who is this character who would make sacrifices for a stranger? “I am Herald. Who are you?” Did I speak just now? How long can I endure this misery? What do I even have of my past? I remember so little this time. If the past is constantly taken from me then what is any future worth? “Slow down, now. Take your time.” *Has he heard me?* “Yes.” His answer is haunting. It interrupts the procession of thoughts I knew to follow. That would have followed. Now my mind is vacant but for a singularity. One connection, between my mind and the world outside. His eyes are intent on knowing me. “Who are you?” I manage to speak. “Patience, my friend. I see there is much work to do. Please, speak yourself.” An arrangement that taunts me. There is something beneath, I can tell with slight focus, but it is obscure. What does he seek from me? Of course! How could I be so dense? “I am me.” “Yes. A very good start. What is meant by that?” He teases me with the slightest progression of conversation. It is a treat to indulge a progression I have been missing. “I have been me. I will be me.” Is this correct? It seems to follow but I fall short of understanding it. “Precisely. You are well traveled, friend. That has certainly left you wise. I have observed many others to fall short. You are the quickest to make the first leap, friend.” He calls me friend, and I know he speaks truth. Something of understanding accents his words which is redoubled by his eyes. A smile rewards my inspection. Herald continues to speak, “Take your time, friend. Lead me to your next question.” Who is this person? Is he a daemon, who captured understanding without earning it? A god who has decided to confront and mock me? I should think not, for I have no reason to. He has offered one truth foremost. He is a friend. “What is the first leap, companion?” My words do not come out precisely as intended, but they are precisely meant. “It is the first thing to know, which implies understanding thrice.” Something awakens from a recession of my mind that was distantly known to me. A curiosity of intensity I never experienced before. This feeling is the most certain I have ever known. Before I permit myself to analyze it the force commands me forward. “The first known is me, I know myself. But I do not understand. You mean something further, do you not?” “Indeed. Can you tell me what it is?” The curiosity fades, but does not return to whatever chasm it was drawn from. I find myself scrutinizing the question. My mind has never been so resolved. It has never been so quiet. “Take time and rest. My home is just along the path ahead. Come when you are ready, friend.