I want you to see what I've seen. First, pack up everything you own, and place it somewhere safe. Find your tooth brush, and a change of clothes. Bid a fond farewell to your money, and wave goodbye to the tech.

It may be wise to pack some snacks.

Now, go find a mostly empty railroad station, at that magical time when night blurs into day, and all the night owls have gone home, and the early birds are not awake yet. Find that lonely rail station, with the saxophonist, playing music for no one but himself. Walk to the ticket terminal, and ask for a ticket past the city, out through the country, past the country where the sky touches the earth, long over the hill where the grass is always greener and the streets are paved with gold. No one will hear you. Why should they? They've all gone home. But someone will, and when you look down, there will be one ticket, long and white, with a note on it, "Free of charge for anyone who wishes to find their home."

And with that you hear the whistle of an oncoming train, and all the departure charts read, "Anywhere: Now." This leaves you no choice does it? Board the nearest train, and find your seat. You know this train, somehow, you've been here before, but never in this life. No one else is here, but your seat is the only one that you feel you should sit in. As you sit down, you feel the train begin to move, slowly at first, in the way that only a train can do, then faster.

As the world begins to blur by the windows, you see the street lights grow less and less, until the only lights are the little lights in the windows of houses, and the sky takes up most of the world.

Like a living iron giant, the train shudders, then begins to ascend. The sky will grow nearer, and a silence will fall on your car. It is now that you should crane your neck, arch to see in front of you, for far off there is a light, growing brighter. Suddenly, with all the subtlety of a mouse, the air is filled with light, below you -- if you could see it -- are little holes, leaks where this star light leaks through.

No, this isn't heaven, to give it such a name would cast shame upon it, no, it is.... Well, some have called it the void between the worlds, others have named it purgatory, but this expanse of white would best be called The Backstage, for it is here that your journey will begin.

It is here where you are -- were? maybe, there is no time here -- given the first question. That question is simply, "Who am I?" It is age old, and the answers have ranged from single letters, monosylabilic grunts in the face of literature, all the way to papers written on the subject. No, there is no answer provided here, just simply the three words, written, as if in stone, on the very air in front of the train.

The train moves on.

Up ahead you spot darkness, a tunnel, leading where? Who knows? Well, you are beyond caring where you go, for question has dominated your mind.

That is when you see the world through the tunnel. Your first thought would have to be, "Green, no, red? Is it autumn? Then why is the grass so green? And what's that ahead? Gold? No, can't be." Nobody can be seen, but there it is, in all its glory, a golden road, stretching from one awe inspiring corner of the horizon to the next. With all the speed of a passing comet, you fly by.

In case you were wondering, your next question is not here, nonetheless, a question begins to occur to you, "What is significant?" In this far off land of unquestionable wealth, is it really better? Is this land far better than your own, even with no one to see it?

Another tunnel, your time in that space was much less, or maybe time is becoming irrelevant, being tossed aside by your pursuit of exploration. That is when you site this new world. It is a barren desert, ruins of a bygone civilization, a toppled tower lies directly in front of you, past it, you see red flickering fields. A thousand, no, a million dandelions, each set aflame, showing no sign of going out, stand in this lifeless place, spelling out your next question, a single word, yet as infinitely important as it's thousand word counterparts, "Why?"

"Meditate on that," comes a voice from everywhere at once, "You may begin to wonder why you are here, that is normal, that is in fact, rather good."

A question begins to occur to you again, and mere seconds after it formulates, the voice returns, "No, of course I am not God. What a funny concept, I suppose you are still learning after all."

You move on.

Blackness. A contrast to the last three worlds. Then suddenly, in this truly endless void, the train comes to a slow, grinding, and total halt. It is evident, by the sheer oppression of the silence, that it will never move again.

The voice comes back.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Come on, it's alright, come take a look."

Looking out the window, you spot a little path, running up to a point on the train, further up. You stand, it feels like it has been years since you have moved, and the feeling of life in your limbs again is a glorious freedom. The path seems almost welcoming when you get to it, a little line of grass, stretching off into nowhere.

"Good, good, now, come find me."

What is this voice? A sadist? Have you followed the instructions of a book you read, only to be taken in by a sadistic serial killer?

"No, it's alright, come with me."

The voice seems much closer now, as if the person saying it was right behind you.

"You won't see me, but it's alright, you're safe here."

For some odd reason you trust this voice, the familiarity, timbre, and even the word choice is very familiar. You walk on.

It seems like many years have passed, or no time at all, it's all become faded really. Everything seems... incorrect, there's the train, far off in the distance, and in front of you nothing.... Wait, what's that? It's a house? Here? And, oh good, it looks normal, at last.

You walk in.

You know this place, like the train it bears familiarity of an unknown sort, like the train, it seems you come here all the time, but have never fully seen its glory. It is now that many questions, mundane and simple, have been formulated, and, coincidentally, it is now that you see the mirror.

Tall and regal, it stands before you, out of place in this small house, calling you over, as if you want to check the passage of time upon your own visage. It is there that you found me.

"Hello," I said jauntily, "Welcome to your house, have you anything to say?"

It's been years since you spoke, but your mind still remembers how, somewhere, ideas bubble up, formulating words, then sentences.

"Oh good, I wasn't sure if you would be able to talk here, it has been a while hasn't it?"

More questions fall out, and to my credit, I did try to answer them.

"No, well, yes, time does work oddly here, you've been here for years."

"Well, not exactly, you certainly haven't aged much, which is good, the last one that was brought here had a bit of a dodgy heart.... I did what I could, but well.... Anyway!"

"Of course there have been others, but they've all been you, to a point. Let me show you."

My face changed, flashing through the thousands that I had brought here.

"Yes, I understand that you are you, and that you are unique, and that there will be no one else like you. But I want you understand that in a way, they were you, as much as that seat on the train was yours, those people each influenced your life in a way that no one else could, and in doing so, they influence mine.

I see realization begin to set it, that's good, very good in fact."

"What's that? Subconscious? Yes, that is a way of saying it, but think of this as a wakeup call from the inside. I've seen the way you act, you live -- well yes -- we act, we live, but to be fair, I'm stuck in here. You're losing your touch. Your work has begun to fail, and in truth, we both know everything that happens.

Yes. Even that little twitch, your eyes, shifting upward... then back down, if you had been watching your reflection you would have seen me do the same. "

You stood back, looking at the walls, the mirror, and at long last noticing the carvings in the walls. The carvings that you yourself left here, a relic of every journey to this place. To describe them in one word I would use the phrase horrible, and in two, you would have to say indescribably beautiful. The oldest that remains recognizable is horribly worn, unrecognizable. The more legible, though covered in the grime of three thousand years, depict a lone man, clad in a robe of unknown cloth, wandering through hills before sitting, at last, at the foot of a huge tree. In another a figure is nailed upon an ancient torture device of barbaric death, as a ray of light falls upon his brow. A turban graces the forehead of another, while a feathered snake reaches out with its tongue to devour a figure enrobed in the gold of a king. The newest is that of a person, traveling through unknown dimensions and directions on a black train, and after that, a blank space.

"Ah, you've seen them. The records. Every one you see before you is a record of some man or woman's journey to this place within their mind, some have called them gods, others simply prophets, because even though anyone can reach it, not everyone seeks the path they believe they do. But please, let me continue my story, it shall not be much longer.

All I want to say, and granted it is a small bit of reassurance given the circumstances, is that you are not alone in this. You may sit upon the last cliff on the edge of sanity, driven mad by this awful turn of circumstance, but always remember the ticket, your journey, and lastly this place beyond the walls of fear and anger. And I shall always be here to talk to. Even if at times it feels like you speak to no one, know that I exist, know that I remain here, within you, as you stand within this house."