“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.” ― Leo Tolstoy

After crossing town, I park and walk into the therapist’s office, shuffle some insurance papers around and have a seat. It’s raining outside, and I take a deep breath to prepare me for this next big step in my life. A spectacled lady with an elegant but casual look about her comes out and introduces herself. We walk back to the cozy therapy room complete with aroma candles, and she says, “Well, I would like to start out today by you telling me a little bit about what’s going on. Tell me as much as you feel comfortable with. Start with what you were feeling when you became ill the last time and then fill in as much of your story as you can so that we can work together on this. I’ll just let you talk it out today, and we’ll start a dialogue next week. Are you ready?”

How do we hike the mountains of our mind?
How do we climb out of the valleys
That we have created in self-doubt and fear,
When tunnels are much more appealing?

Thomas Jefferson rented a one bedroom flat on the fourth floor of the apartment building behind the supermarket two blocks before the city limit. He stayed alone, worked the nightshift as a night watchman in the museum of natural history downtown. For four years he had been working there. He used to stay nearby his workplace when he had joined but when with time his rent went up while his salary refused to grow he had to move uptown. After some thorough search and research he found a nice comfortable place in the Boneyard Alley, where he was currently staying.

But without that candle, what left am I to see? When she goes away, there's nothing, to me.

That cavern, while frightening, fills me with delight, and when I step from the ledge, it feels all but right.

That voice oh so smooth, the air on my skin, when it leaves my ears, I hear only a din.

I love these woods, I go to them almost every weekend. My walks help me calm down, relax, recharge after my stressful week. It almost feels magical, the power of these woods to help me. It's as if they understand my predicament, understand the reason why I come here, understand me in general. I know it's very stupid for me to drive almost an hour and a half just to come here, but I feel like it is more than worth it.

In a city as busy as a bee,
where everyone, no matter what they may believe,
is as insignificant as one can be,
for 'thinking is bad' is what they believe.

In this city, a child is born,
but one very different from what you'd expect.
This child has greatness sworn,
and he is different from the rest.

He can be whatever he may dream;
he doesn't need to be a follower.
He can go against the stream,
and become a teacher, preacher or a leader.

Zane awoke with a scream begging to be released. Sweat covered Zane but he didn't notice. He climbed out of bed and paced around the room to calm his nerves.

"Just breath. Just breath." Zane mumbled to himself. He ran his hand through his dirty blonde hair then walked over to the window.

"It won't happen again. Your stronger than the dreams." Zane took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

The sun shone through the clouds on a moderately warm Tuesday afternoon, May 15th, 1953, a light breeze blowing down the length of the East Coast and through its cities. Sitting comfortably between the larger, more prominent cities in the area was the town of Questerfield, PA, its buildings and houses simple but elegant in their own ways. Record players spun the popular music of the day, clothing companies advertised their wares in the front windows of stores, and furniture retailers sold the latest items to complete the home of every housewife’s wildest dreams. It wasn’t even rush hour, yet the air contained a hint of urgency as people rushed up and down the sidewalk, busily buzzing between locations or getting the attention of their friends with an enthusiastic hand wave.

The train shuffled effortlessly along the tracks. Normal trains would be loud, bumpy, rattly. This one was smooth, comfortable. I found myself gazing out the window, but there was nothing to see. Muddled, fuzzy shapes, a grayish blur, as though the window were obscured by something, although I had no clue what it could be.
I suddenly wondered why I was there. Why was I riding on a train? And such a strange train. The seats, floor, roof, all a solid white. Not a blinding white, but comfortable like the waiting room at a doctor's office. I blinked. When had I gotten on a train, and where was I going?

You were only seven,
I had yet to turn five.

Your face was the first thing I saw when I woke up. I had fallen asleep in your lap the night before. You were looking at me and as soon as I met your gaze, you smiled. We were still laying on the bathroom floor. It felt the same as the night before; I was scared, I was tired, you held me, you were there. But it wasn't the same, now everything was quiet. I tried to say something, but I wanted to be silent. I sat up. My tears started flowing. I didn't want to sit up; I didn't want to be alive. You knew I was is agony so you put your own aside. You gently dried my tears away and looked me in the eye, ''Let's get away'', you said. I told you I was scared, I didn't want mother to wake. But you were strong and you said that if we'd be wary, she wouldn't hear a thing.