321 days.
I received a telepathic communique from the Divine Universe, scrambled through dream images while I slept. It was time to begin.
I cleaned up the garbage surrounding me in my apartment, remnants of White Castle and gas station hotdogs, empty 40 bottles refilled with urine, ashed upon soda cans, dirty laundry, and then took a long shower.
The day was surprisingly warm and sunny when I stepped outside. I made my way down Graham Avenue to Metropolitan, where I felt drawn into a Qi-Gong massage parlor. The interior was dimly lit, a relaxing pallor cast by the aquarium and scented candles that smelled of mystery.
I was led behind a curtain containing a table and a small row of hooks upon which I hung my pleather jacket and sweater. The diminutive Chinese woman entered, began to ask something, only to flash me a knowing smile and gestured towards the table.
I slipped out of my t-shirt, only momentarily ashamed of my pale and un-toned torso, and slapped myself down face first. The dwarfish woman went to work, kneading her fingertips into my flesh, pressing intensely against my out of place vertebrae, working me over with her shipyard forearms.
I always gave the massages, draining others of stress with my bony knuckles, digging into taut muscles, feeling the tug-of-war between bone and sinew. Having it done to me was an awakening experience. The tangled mess of tension let its grip slip just a bit. I began to relax.
I recognized then that I thought too much, and about everything. From her technique, to how my neck and back had gotten this way, to mistakes that could not be undone. I had so much to get done, and days were falling off the calendar like secondhand ticks. There were preparations that must begin now.
I left the woman a satisfied customer, one step closer to healthy and happy. I jumped on the subway and hit Chinatown to get my eyes examined for a new pair of glasses. For years I bought the same frames from Fabulous Fanny's on 9th St in the East Village, but now they didn't make them anymore.
I'm a creature of habit and there's only three things I care about when it comes to my appearance: haircut, footwear, and spectacles. After updating my prescription I hit Warby Parker in Soho, a cheap and trendy spot for frames. I found a pair that fit the new me and ordered them.
The new version of myself was that much closer to becoming a reality. Seven years had passed since I moved to NYC, got those old glasses I identified with, and became a new person. Seven years worth of madness, booze, and self-destructive impulses, enough time to regenerate every cell in my body.
I was that crazy, romantic poet, lost boy in the big city. I left a trail of broken hearts, vomit, and prose in my wake. Now a new evolution was taking place, a sequel was forming all around me as I steeled my nerves and headed out to the dive bars to divine my destiny as the destroyer of worlds.
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