“hey you, Happy Birthday 🎈” The text has sat on ‘read’ in my iMessage app for four, maybe five, hours now. I’d lost track of time since I first lied on my apartment’s cold carpet floor. What was the proper response, if there was one? How could I condense marinated feelings into a single text, like trying to untangle webs of a spider that never stops spinning. Bzz. Bzz. My phone buzzed again for the eighth or so time. I’d lost count after downing the cup of lukewarm coffee. Decaf, for obvious reasons. My digital tongue was tied with a bout of alexithymia. Bzz. Bzz. Birthdays are the subtle reminders of the amount of friends and family we have. But the morning after, it’s as if we’re strangers once more. I lie on a carpet dirtied with cat-litter, wallowing in my own self pity, unable to feel grateful — unable to say, “thank you.” Or, “how have you been?” Or, “I love you.” Or, “I hate you.” Or, “fuck you.” Or anything at all. Instead, most people I’ve come to know in my life sit in my inbox only wishing me well today. But where were they the other 364 days? Maybe that’s when I’ve needed them most. I’m bitter, I know. But I suppose I could feel any which way I want. It is my birthday, after all.

I trod past the mountains of Glasgow, searching for virtues in berry brûlée and lukewarm tea. Days I’m a passenger navigating nature and its juxtaposed architectures. Falling in love with strangers that pass me by in family-owned delis. Nights I slump over a book and read a chapter or two with a glass of whiskey in hand. Wondering if I’m someone’s stranger. When the clock resets and the moon is high, I go back to the hostel in which I lie. I lie awake in my own desolation, hoping tomorrow’s endeavors have virtues for me. Scotland has been kind to a stranger in its city.

04/23 I could smell the cigarette smoke coming from four seats ahead of me. It was a mother and her baby; she tried rocking him to sleep but he kept crying as the train tracks buckled under us. She must’ve seen me staring because she turned to me and gave one of those polite half-smiles you give to strangers. Maybe she wondered why I was dressed in all black. A part of me felt bad for the kid. Another part felt bad for the mother. Maybe they felt bad for me. I returned the smile. 04/25 I couldn’t find the energy to write yesterday. I didn’t wanna pick up my pen just now, either. The last journal entry was a bad day. I’ve had a few of them. Goodnight. Miss you. 04/26 It’s nearing midnight and the neighbors dog won’t shut up again. I heard you say ‘Damn it, Roscoe’ in my half asleep/dream state. I couldn’t help but wake up and laugh. I must’ve laughed for 5 minutes or so. Your tone always got to me — so enchanting. You were such a light when I needed it. you are even now. Thanks for the laugh, and thanks for the sweet dreams. Love you. 04/27 I didn’t eat take out today. I decided to cook a steak — added rosemary garnish the way you used to (although mine wasn’t half as good). Then I put on a Zemeckis film (could you guess which?). Popcorn, soda. Probably gained a pound or two. Oh yeah, and your mom called earlier. She checks on me often. I can’t find the nerve to visit your parents yet. I’m glad you had each other. I’ll visit soon, promise. Well goodnight. Love you. 04/28 I could’ve swore I heard you call my name from a wishing well. The one in front of Giani’s. We must’ve thrown a hundred dollars worth of coins in there throughout the years. Think I could write that off on my taxes? Con’t: Y’know, I was never religious or spiritual, but since the day you left I’ve hoped you were right. It’s been almost a month now, and I’m not sure if it’ll ever get easier. But maybe you never really left. Maybe you’re still there. In the clouds. In the wishing well. Somewhere meandering between these written words and train rides. Thank you for the journal. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing to you. Wherever you are, my dear. Until we meet again. I love you Journal Entries — Week 1.

A red turtle neck that fit snug enough to outline the slight definition on my shoulders. A spray of Dolce & Gabbana cologne. A gold plated wrist watch she had gotten me for my birthday last year. My eyes cut an angle in the reflection of the mirror to find Stacy fixing her heels just outside the bathroom door. Our eyes locked for a split second. “You know, our second date was your brother’s New Years party…You remember that?” She said, her attention still fixated on the hinge of her shoes. “Yeah — Yeah, of course. Green dress with the strawberry earrings. Leather boots to go with it. How could I forget?” And really, how could I. Her laugh was infectious that night, and it was then that I realized that if love at first sight wasn’t real, love at second was. I smiled at her through the reflection. She laughed softly. “Five years…time flies, huh?” She said. I stayed quiet. “Love you.” She blew me a kiss from the bedside, and I blew one back. I don’t remember when those three words became two. I don’t remember when she stopped complimenting my cologne or giving a playful “wow” when the clothes I wore highlighted the muscles on my arms, either. Sometimes I wonder when we stopped being impressive to each other. Her smile just feels like another smile, and it makes this home feel haunted. It makes me wonder if true love is real or if somewhere along the lines it’s replaced with complacency. I fix my belt, going up a notch from last I remember. “You too,” I tell her. “You ready?” “Yeah,” she said. She reached for my hand, so I held hers, worried we would feel the emptiness in each others’. The full moon hid in the reflection of our rear view mirror. We drove off, three hours from celebrating a new beginning.

She stood poised in a long velvet dress, sitting at a table in a crowded dining hall. Classical music juxtaposed with palpable chatter filled the room. Elliott treaded towards the girl, pushing through the crowd. “Excuse me. Excuse me — sorry.” “Hey! Watch it, bonehead!” A man said. Others turned to Elliott with visible disdain as he pushed forward. The closer he got to her, however, the thicker and more firm the crowd seemed to get. It was almost as if they intentionally held Elliott back. “Rebecca! Rebecca!” Elliott yelled. He was no more than 10 feet from her, but his echoes drowned out alongside the room’s. “Rebecca!” He yelled with a final breath. She glanced to him, her eyes filled with surprise and discomfort. He smiled, finally. “I told you I would find you!” Elliott yelled, his head peaking past tall men and the shoulders of a crowded room. Each time his eyes met hers, though, the more discomfort he saw in them. Her eyes widened and her lips began to frown. She mouthed something, but Robert was too distant to hear her. He could swear he made out the line, “you shouldn’t be here.” Rebecca began to fade like smoke leaving the head of a cigarette. Her body drifted away, vanishing into the populated hall. “Rebecca!” Elliott’s final word met the room in silence. Everyone had disappeared. “Robert! Wake up, Robert!” Dr. Kantz yelled as he unplugged the nodes from the skull cap on Robert’s head. Robert awoke in a haze of reality. “Robert! Are you there? What day is it?” Dr. Kantz asked. “The first…November. 2051.” “Okay, good. That’s good. And where are you?” “I’m…uh…Dr. Kantz’ Psychological Services and Hypnotherapy.” “Good. Good.” Dr. Kantz said, portraying a clear sense of relief. “I imagine your dream was vivid — I’ve never seen someone’s EEG reading go so berserk, if I’m being quite frank.” “Dream? No — that was real. I was there — somewhere. I don’t know. It was…19 something, maybe…and—“ “1911, to be exact. Or at least that’s the year you were most drawn to in the pre-hypnotic state.“ Dr Kantz picked up his pen and notepad. “And Robert, my practice focuses on self-guided meditations, but they’re not real, okay? You may still be weary — just give it some time.” “Dr. No. I know it sounds crazy but it was real. I saw her, and she recognized me. I thought this was all bullshit but no I saw it and she was right, this is real and I found—” “Found what, Robert? Rebecca? I should’ve known…” “I know, Kantz. But trust me I—“ “Enough, Robert! Rebecca is dead, and she has been for years. I’m sorry…” Dr. Kantz seemed sincere. “Look, what you experienced here is a new practice that we’re still trying to perfect, and I apologize if it’s too impressive. I agreed to treat you because my goal here is to help you, but you have to accept that although your dreams feel real, it’s only the entranced state. Okay?” Robert’s face flattened, but his eyes still tingled with a sense of assuredness. “Okay,” he agreed. “When’s the second go, doc?”

It was a world of hope — a sustainable ecosystem composed of the wonders of nature and advanced technology. In my awestruck gaze I could make out flying cars, innovative city structures, waterfalls, and trees as tall as redwoods (in relation to their surroundings, I suppose). My wife walked in from the hotel door holding a few white towels, and I quickly closed the suitcase. “The kid at the front desk said he could only give me two extra. Should be okay,” she said. “By the way, my mother’s been asking about you. I’m sure she’s glad you came out for the holidays — just please try not to argue politics with my dad again, will ya?” I imagined the former part of what she said was only there to butter me up for the latter. “Hm,” I sounded, attempting to make short of the fact that a literal microcosm hid in the suitcase in front of me. “Sure thing.” The words emptied my mouth with a heavy sigh. She squinted her eyes, giving me a suspicious gaze. “What’s wrong?” She asked. She was always good at seeing past my facades. Or, maybe I just wasn’t good at making them. “Oh no, nothing. I, uh, just forgot the toothpaste.” I replied. “Oh.” Her expression softened. “That’s okay, I think there’s some in my bag.” she replied. “I’m gonna shower now, honey, but I’ll look for it when I’m out.” She blew me a kiss and turned towards the bathroom. I gave her a lighthearted smile in return before our eyes broke. ‘Is this just jet lag and I hallucinated the damned thing?’ I thought. My fingers slowly lifted the opening of the suitcase again, allowing my eyes to peak back at the utopian world. And before my eyes it lived. I couldn’t help but laugh in amazement. A world away from jet lag and in laws. Away from three star hotels and dinners filled with political discourse. A world for those to retire from the real one. Ah, what a dream.

Her words flowed dreamily with an effervescence — a dream that I’d never wish to wake from. “I almost said ‘no’ when you asked me out, but not because I didn’t want to come, I was just — a lot’s been going on is all.” “Oh,” I said before smiling half-heartedly. “Oh, no— I hope that didn’t sound too mean,” she said after slowly taking a sip from her beer. “I mean, I gladly said ‘yes’ in the end. It’s just — honestly, it’s just some stuff with my ex-boyfriend that I have to deal with. We’re completely done, but he just keeps trying to creep back into my life I guess, and it’s a little too much to deal with sometimes.” ‘Is anyone who mentions their ex on a first date truly over them?’ I thought. “No-no, I totally understand — it’s no problem,” I said. “I almost didn’t come for the same reason… Your ex boyfriend consistently tries getting back into my life, too. He’s clearly not over me — think I was his first love.” It was a bad joke, but she laughs an oddly sincere laugh, or at least it was enough to fool me. “So, honestly, why did you ask me out? I mean, we just sort-of know each other from social media and slyly ‘liking’ each other’s posts, but do we really?” She held a genuine expression as each word sweetly danced between her lips. Her nude fingertips gently cupped the glass of draft beer after each sip; it was like a piece of art. She awkwardly fumbled chopsticks in her other hand, but it was with such poise that even the chef would forgive her. Her feet would occasionally bump into mine every couple minutes as she sat across from me, and I loved that. I would initially be enamored by her smile. I would eventually find myself admiring her freely shared ideas of curious hope and playful wisdom. Is being ‘in love’ a feeling that gets thrown around too easily or one that is not recognized enough? Because I am completely and utterly in love with a girl I’d swear I’ve met in a past dream. It’s strange how the mind confidently juggles ideas in a matter of seconds. I smiled jovially. “Well…”

The soup sat between my clenched knees, and I could feel the warming glass bowl simmer into the outer layer of my skin. The soup was good, though. I don’t think I’ve ever had French onion soup. Well, I don’t know what French onion soup is, for that matter. For all I know this was just a soup with onions in it, and my brain concluded it was French. “Jeremy!” My mother yelled. “Why are you sitting at the Boca do Lobo, my dear? Surely you’ll spill your soup, and we wouldn’t want that! Please, place it on the table.” ‘The Boca of what’ was my initial thought. My second thought was why did my mother have white hair and visible crows feet from a yard away. My third thought was when has she ever made French onion soup. “Sorry,” I reply. I quickly stand, and the room feels a lot bigger than I remember. Or maybe I just felt really small. Loud music suddenly blasts from the record player in the corner of the room. It’s Cantaloupe Island by Herbie Hancock, I think. The sound waves feel palpable and alive. I never really liked jazz, and I don’t remember owning a record player. ‘What is going on’ my internal monologue mumbles. I quickly bend to place the bowl of soup on the table, and in doing so I realize it’s gotten extremely cold over the past minute. My mind melts into confusion. I focus on the soup. My eyes ponder over it, reflecting on the spiced broth and each slice of onion. I feel my eyes dilate. A deep breath. In. Then out. “Well, geez. You feeling it yet, man?” I turn to see Vincent lying on his favorite loveseat with one leg over the armrest. “What? When did you get here?” I say. “You find the meaning of life in that soup, man? Shit, I can have my mom microwave more if you want. Looks like you got lost in a wormhole, you’ve been staring at it for half hour now.” I turn back to the soup. The bowl is plastic. The onions are letters like that of a child’s ABC soup. “What the—“ He laughs. “Oh, you’re definitely peaking.”

Eyes cloudy like cigarette smoke once as blue as the heart of the sea Wistfully weeping in their final hour Haunted by what could have been The fear that meets adolescent hearts True love that never could embark Hands that waver under fluorescent lights Words unsaid in the moon’s midnight Haunted by what could have been Blue eyes become like cigarette smoke Too late to see past time’s illusion A last chance is what they wish they took

A panicked temper juxtaposed with the calmness of nature. The meandering stream filled the void of sound. The short shrubs filled the void of comfort. Hard rock formed to catch each heavy-footed step. But there was no animal left for his habitat to indulge. Of all the duties one could be given, I was gifted with watching over this enclosure. Beautiful and delightfully fit with enough yards to yield a home. But perhaps it wasn’t enough. So if I’ve lost the only being I was meant to keep, am I still a keeper? It seems that I’ve failed, but does my downfall relay to that of the animal? Is my downfall truly a downfall… The enclosure was safe; the enclosure was assuring. But to be lost in the grandeur of the world is natural, and to accept the illusion of an enclosure is truly panicking. My pupils dilated with a sudden realization. There was no animal left for his habitat to indulge because he looked in the mirror and realized discomfort was his home.