My walk to the magnificent building is very different now. I am somehow conscious. I not only see activity of the streets and the market place, but I now feel its filth. I now notice the currency of the market, the souls of people.  Also, at this point, it comes to mind that I am apparently connected to the entertainment industry. I work for or with someone who makes a living out of molding people into famous singing performers. I am still not sure of my specific role.

I find myself approaching the front door of the magnificent building.  Even though I am not an inhabitant, I can go freely in and out of it.  Similarly,  it seems I have some mark of protection as I pass through the streets now behind me. Though I am able to see many things, it’s as if I am not seen.

I am sensing self internal tension as I’m walking inside and make my way down a bright shinny hallway. Then, I enter the room where I meet with the man I work with. This man is a very dynamic person. He is always talking and in some sort of motion. He has an approachable appearance; big smile, friendly face, soft features, and a charismatic personality. His clothing is clean and visually pleasing. His voice bounces with a flare of persuasion and a tone of encouragement. He comes across like warm U.S. southern hospitality. But in my heart, I know he has an agenda which he executes as fierce and cold as the knife of the heartless mother. Why am I here? My confusion and tension is great and terrible. I can’t understand why I’m not either dead (killed by society) or happy (emotionally aloof from this society’s evil).

The man and I have been working with a young man in order to mold him into the next pop music sensation. All I can think of when I see the young man is Justin Bieber, (who knows). All kind of things are lavishly poured onto this guy: fancy clothes, jewelry, and living arrangements. He has become a very shiny person. Superficially, he appears to have it all.  His seductive blue eyes, empty and shallow, are the eyes a person with questions but no answers.  His essence has the traits of one who either is in a trance or is in shock from trauma.

I found myself joining a meeting with the young man and the man I work with. The man is filling the young man with big dreams, promises, and plans. But at the same time, he is expressing his frustration by complaining the young man has not been performing as great as expected. Witnessing the interaction, it is now becoming clear to me that this is how the trick is played and the trap is set. He shows them the carrot they can have and even gives them a taste. He then encourages them to go get it, but then suggests why they are not good enough yet to actually attain it.

And so, in this room as I sit and listen, I grow more and more uncomfortable. It is not from outside influences but a stirring of emotions from inside. Feeling uneasy in the chair I lean to one side resting my head on my hand and then switch sides and hand. I can tell I’m drawing attention to myself. Casually I stand and step out of the room to the hallway. Then the man I work with also exits and tells me he is leaving the building for an appointment and will return shortly. As we head for the front door, he asks for me to meet him at his parking space when he returns.

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From this pseudo street corner, to the left and across a rocky dirt street, about 25 feet from me, is a standalone tent shop. The shopkeeper is an older man with an untamed, stringy grayish beard which comes to a point at his chin.   The hoodie he is wearing slightly covers his head so that his face is still visible. I look down the street, which dips downward into the distance, and notice the head of someone walking up the street. Rising into sight, I see a deliveryman carrying a sack. Though I can’t see inside, the contents reveal such an unsettling familiar shape, that I feel my chest being gripped as if I’m being forced to observe.

The deliveryman’s pace and mannerism are that of a person performing a repetitive and mundane task. He has no particular facial expression or conviction in his step. Approaching the shop to my left, the shopkeeper acknowledges him and they begin a discussion. Made clear by the course of hand and body gestures, I can tell a transaction is taking place. They conclude, and the shopkeeper motions and directs the deliveryman to place the sack on the table in the back. The deliveryman walks around, places the sack down with no particular care or regard, and then walks away in the same manner he arrived only this time disappearing as he seems to descend into the rocky dirt street.

Turning my gaze intently towards the unattended sack on the table, it unfolds to uncover an infant inside. It is clear the child has been deliberately painted with symmetrical red markings on the left and right sides of the body and head. (The piercing conclusion of this situation makes it very difficult for me to continue writing and to have to recall this memory). The infant is no one’s son or daughter. The delivery man and the shopkeeper are not the infant’s caretakers. The markings are a label indicating the child’s intended use. Human life stripped of all dignity and relegated to the status of commodity. It is my impression the infant is to be killed as a religious sacrifice.

Then there an inner whisper.  In a society where the moral standards of the great foundation are debunk, the bar which defines anything is wiped away. The horizon which differentiates up from down is gone. Interpretation of good and evil is now the prerogative of the ones with not just a persuasive argument, but at the same time the loudest and most seductive voice. A voice that pleases the appetite of ears parched for anything which makes them forget with drunkenness the filth they have made for themselves. This voice sets himself as a god to define good and evil, and the captivated masses set him up as one. A culture such as the one of  ancient Greek gods emerges, and the people make themselves subject to the numerous personalities of many masters. The significance of origin, purpose, and destiny is set at the mercy of such idols. Idols that require much, are never pleased, and cannot offer fulfillment.  Shame is the language of the culture, fear is the sentiment of life, and pride oppresses even the oppressor.  And so reality departs from truth.

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