Sitting, thinking, gazing out....I lay my head back and my hand stretches out to touch the window. Softly flowing through the window my fingers graze the bench. Warm and rough and plastic wood. A thousand McLunches melted into my hand and out. The weeping branches of the next door shrub prickle inside my veins. The sadly smiling leaves clean the capillaries and soak the poison dust of life. The hot air sun surface of the ground pulls me through and down. Worm kings vie for lunch at my passing and out into the dawn. I burst free concrete and asphalt hair and denim cloth my seared clean soul. I can feel it build to a radiant pulse, quark, muons, gluons and gamma force me to disintegrate. And now..."Sir, the clerk will see you now. Have a nice Day!" Thanks, I whisper, the touch of the sun still on my fingers.

One question.
One singularly infinite question. Or is it an infinitely singular question. Or maybe the shear repetitiveness of the questions shows up its inane nature. That one question...What is the point?

I don't think I know the answer anymore, if I ever did.

I suppose you could respond with, "Of what?" And I would have to volley the ball back to your court with, "of anything." You name it, what is the point? Kids, life, jobs, trying to feel happy, writing this, anything. What's the point. To fulfill some biologic imperative to roll the DNA dice so that "life" can go on?? To achieve immortality through your children in the form of memory and chemical messengers?? To get some thrill out of a squirt of dopamine or some other neurotransmitter?? What's the point of it all?

The days become a blur, and I grow weary. I didn't think that my week long getaway would turn into this, and if I ever get home I won't be using a cheap travel agent again. The days have few changes - there is the free food and shelter, the nightly terrors, and the sacrifices. With each one my chest hurts more and more; my heart burns in empathy.
I found some ancient writings. They are difficult to understand and I have to puzzle through them. Whenever I think I have made some progress, I only come to realize the depth of my ignorance. The writings seem to point to some way out, to a different temple full of wonder and peace. I wish I knew who left this and why. I wish I knew who or what was making the sacrifices. I was only glad that they had yet to find me.
I don't know how long it's been. I don't know how long I can last here. Too afraid to leave, tired of being in this Temple Clearing, I don't know what to do any more. I have finally learned who is making the sacrifices. And that knowledge scares me even more...

As I sat alone in the metaphoric darkness of the temple grounds, I wanted to end it all. I desperately wanted to end my life, while knowing I would not. I had been searching the temple, my home, for some clues about its existence and purpose. At last, I'd found some writings on the alter, in a script that took me months to begin to decipher. I puzzled over the writings each day, with the pain of each days sacrifice burning next to me. These were harder to understand than the ancient text I'd earlier discover, and they consumed me.

Give to me your heart, Innocence in blood and spirit, Give to me your heart with each day you breathe, Renew in each dawning, That which you give, Give to me your heart and I will be yours, Give to me freely and I will be your reward, Pleasure and bliss, Joy without measure, Give to me your heart, And mine I will give to you.

I stared at what I had deciphered, not knowing what to think. That was when it hit me. The world, it seems is full of bitter surprises. Funny thing, in a not-so-funny way, is that the surprises are never really surprises. They are the kind of surprise you get when you order something, forget about it, then see that the postman has left it on the doorstep. You always knew about it, but for the briefest of moments, you are surprised to see it. That is how it hit me, like the postman bringing the tax summons that I always knew was coming. I pulled open my shirt and saw the proof. Scars. Dozens, hundreds of scars across the left side of my chest. The screams in the night were my own. The sound of bones splitting and flesh ripping were of my doing. It was my heart I was sacrificing, nightly, upon this alter to a false god.
There was no pleasure, bliss or joy without measure. I was sacrificing in impotence, getting nothing in return. This temple's god was deaf, didn't care, or was too busy rewarding others. And I felt, without much surprise, empty.
And I still sit there now, wondering what to do - how to escape. I have done some minor cleaning of one of the other temples, just to see what it held. I have stopped going to sleep in my dark temple room; there is no need. Nightly, I sacrifice my heart as I seem powerless to stop myself. The ancient text is all but forgotten, though I still have some hope that what it contains is the truth. Forget me now for there is nothing you can do. Only heed my example, and don't sacrifice yourself in impotence and in vain.

The travel brochure was not the most accurate. It had details, or rather generalities masquerading as details, about the woods. Once I'd decided to go, there was nothing to do but go. Admittedly, I tried to back out a couple of times, but in the end, it was off on my journey. The thing about travel brochures, it's not what they say that is important. It's what they don't say. Like how they tell you that you will have a local tour guide, but fail to tell you that he'll whack you on the head at his earliest convenience and leave you for dead. In a place you didn't want to be. Without any hope. I guess you get what you pay for, and life is a free admission (for the one entering life), but the pay as you go aspect of life, that can get expensive. I am getting ahead of myself.
I'd wanted to see the scenery, the sights, the vistas of the world. The great conifer and broad leaf forests, the ancient ruins and temples to pagan gods. I wanted to see the castles of old and imagine their heroes. Oh, I got all of that, but not in the way I'd expected. Another beautiful quality of life really - expect one thing and get another. Like the tour guide I guess. What I got was not serene and pastoral; what I got was Mordor on a bad day, on a vengefully bad day.
I woke in the middle of the forest with a splitting head ache and a matching split head. This forest, lets call it the forest of stark reality, was grim. The light was blocked by the canopy from Toldyaso's and the Neverknewthat's. The sickly perfumes of the Siren Flowers and the budding Betraya Trees clogged the air and twisted my stomach. The delicate Forget-me-nots were being choked by the vines of the Forgotchas. The path was blocked at every turn by the thorny Phkya, tearing and ripping my legs and body as I walked. It was with some relief then, that I found the clearing.
Relief is a funny thing. Totally relative to your situation, it is. (Great, now I'm talking like Yoda) Say for instance, you are standing in a furnace. It is certainly a relief to step out of the furnace, even if you step into a cloudless 130 degree day. Relative. The clearing was a relief in that relative sort of way. The clearing held a couple small temples and a larger central one. It was obvious that no one prayed at the smaller temples, as they were overgrown and weedy. This will sound strange, since I just described the smaller temples as unused, but they had a clean feel to them. I can't describe it any better than that and you'll just have to trust me on this. The larger temple, that did not feel clean. You could tell it was well tended and in use. By who, I wasn't sure when I first saw it.
In a wood as gloomy as this, night is a difficult thing to judge. Degrees of grey turning to black is your first clue. Screeches, moans, howls and the cries of the night are the last clues you'll get. Seeing nowhere else, I sought refuge in the largest of the three...

I found a room. It was cold, dark and not particularly comfortable. But at least it was out of the elements and provided a relative safety from the night predators. The room is windowless and door-less. The winding passage into the interior of the temple and to my room was sufficiently twisted enough to eliminate the possibility of light. It was here that I was to make my home.

Whispers in the night, calling. "Follow me," "Come this way," "Leave this temple and you will find another." On and on they called, whispered, begged and cajoled. I slept in fits, afraid of what might happen. I heard scratches in the night, like a saw on bone. Screams and pleading voices resonated through the walls until day.
I don't really know how I knew it was day, except for the silence. I felt my way back through the passage until I was outside again. Oddly enough, there was food on the ground. I had ceased to be surprised by what ever happened here, and I guess I just took it for granted when I walked out into the far from blinding light and found ready to eat food. It was tasty and filling. I had the impression that there was more of it about than I was able to find, but I don't know why.
The temple, my safe haven in this wood, was beautiful. All the temples were, but this one was well cared for. The stone was polished and shone, reflecting my image in granite pools of color. The temple was large, as I've said, and there was a central stairway to the alter. Something like a Mayan ruin, I suppose. And at the top, my morning fell into despair.
There was blood on the alter, fresh blood. And remains. The remains of a burnt offering, of what looked like a human heart. Just looking at it made my heart hurt, my chest ache. Who could do such a thing? Who could take a life and destroy it, just to pray to some sort of false god? And why didn't they find me, hidden in their temple?

The corridor was dark and I felt as if I was blind. Of course, you don't have to be blind to be unable to see where you are going. I can look back, in my minds eye, and see how I'd arrived here. And yet, I had no idea how I'd come to be in this place. I could eventually make out some features of the corridor, and all I could see where doors. Not wanting to stand still in my darkness, I tried the first door. I will tell you, all the rooms looked like they were built on the same model - square. No fancy furnishings, no decorations, just small square rooms with single occupants.

The first room held a child, but one whose eyes were dark and full of malice. "You promised it wouldn't be this way!" "You promised things would work out differently!" The promise of youth facing the reality of the adult world and screaming impotently against all that had been promised. The eyes of my childhood saw so much promise in life, so much opportunity. Until they were darkened and clouded over by reality. I shut the door, aching with memory. How much had I hoped for; how much had I dreamed; how much had I thought possible? Fulfillment, white picket fences, happily ever after; rubbish now and filling those young eyes with disgust at ever having allowed himself to be deceived.

I opened the next door. A man stood still in the center of the room, looking a bit like Munch's Scream. Looking around, he seemed to be surrounded by hundreds of people, all laughing and joking. They were smiling, drinking and generally carrying on like most party goers. Until they walked right through the man. They seemed not to see or notice. He was nothing to them. He stayed quiet, and I could see in his eyes that he'd given up trying to make himself heard or seen. He was loneliness personified. In a room crowded with life, he was a nothing, a nobody to be ignored and walked through. He just looked at me, his face changing not a bit when I closed his door.

The next door held a skinny man at a feast. He ate and ate, never stopping to notice my arrival. He was small and barely visible behind the roast duck. No matter how I moved to get a better look, he'd unconsciously dodge behind some other pile of food - squash and fresh fruit, puddings and cakes, ham and cheeses, on and on. I caught one glimpse of his eyes and he was scared. Scared he'd be noticed, scared he'd be seem for who he really is, scared to enjoy what was right in front of him. I shut him back in his room, saddened.

The penultimate door held a chair, upon which rested a card. It was a tarot card, I think, and looked like the Lovers. I picked it up, but the image was indistinct and looked as if it was covered in dust. I foolishly blew the dust. It swelled up from the card and covered everything in the room, including me. I could taste it, smell it, and it changed the way I saw the world. I left, afraid of what I'd done. I had the sense that from now on, everything I saw, tasted, smelled, or touched would be tainted by this dust; that I could never get it out of my system. It had a strange addicting quality, at one time making you feel good and making you regret having it cover your life.

The last door, and I was out. But with no clearer of an understanding of where I was. A strange waking nightmare of an experience. I will journey on and follow my path, not knowing where it leads and having no clear direction. It seems obvious to me now, but I didn't realize it at the time. Perhaps feeling blinded by the dark I had failed to make the connection, but all the faces behind the doors, they were mine.