Catharsis

(this story was originally written March 8, 2024)

I.

It’s nighttime in the city but the streets are still flush with light. The ground is wet from the previous day’s rain and there are puddles everywhere. In them you can look down and see the blurry reflection of bright neon lights from the buildings above. Reflections of maroon red signs jutting out of fifty-story skyscrapers, though in the gently shifting waters the words are all illegible. Looking out along the highway, the puddles form a collage of shapes in warm colors overlaid on grimy black cement. Above the road the air is suffused with purple mist reaching up to just below eye level. The light pollution is too strong to see the moon.

I’m looking out from a street corner with static. The Hotel de la Marquis, which static is staying at, looms above us. He is staring wistfully at the city and smoking a cigarette. When he is done, we will say our goodbyes and I will be on my way. He is taking his time.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m at the end of the world, and the city is the only place left. Every time a car passes by it blinks out of reality. Every time a light is turned off is the last time. Eventually everyone in the city will wind down to nothing and I’ll be the last one left. I’ll stand in a dim room, tidy up a bit, brush my teeth, and linger a moment. Then I’ll flip off the last light and that will be it.”

static pauses, watching the cars drive by. I wait for a moment to see if he is done talking. He is not.

“But it never winds down all the way, not really. Someone is always still driving by. A light always stays on. Then the sun comes back and I forget about it.”
Another pause, shorter this time.

“I dunno. I’m tired.”

For an instant there is a desperate burning sensation in my throat, metaphysical bile. Something that needs to be said. But it’s gone before I can catch it and too soon the silence is awkward. Now something needs to be said. An internal language model churns for a moment inside me and spits out:
“Night is too short, dude. If we had four extra hours of night for every day there would be enough time to sleep, then the city would really be able to wind down.”
He glances back at me without turning his head.

“Listen.”

“Mm?”

“I don’t mean to... I mean, I’m not trying to... Look-”

“?”

“I know it’s painful. God, do I know. All the time it’s so painful, I don’t know how people stand it. But... you know you’re not alone, right? It’s a shitty world, but it’s our shitty world. Sorry, like-- you know what I mean--”

“Yeah, I know what you mean... but why’re you saying it now? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I just felt like... like, I don’t know, people need to hear it sometimes. There aren’t enough moments where we can say things like that. I just want you to know I care.”

“Okay. Thanks. I care about you too.”

The cigarette butt falls to the ground. There is a little orange light still visible. In the reflections in the puddles it mixes and blends with the reds and purples of the city. static walks off into the hotel.

II.

I walk aimlessly for about fifteen minutes, stopping in front of a building that catches my eye. The sign says “SYNTHONIC ORCHESTRAL THEATER”. It appears as a half-coherent blend of 50s-style movie theater and science-fiction pastiche; there’s the big old theater sign like in old pictures, but it’s covered in garish blue blinky lights. After a moment I realize what about it caught my eye: it’s the only blue light I’ve seen on any of these buildings.

Someone very tall walks out of the building. She recognizes me before I recognize her. She smiles and waves at me.

“Hey.”

“Hi. What’s playing in there?”

“Nothing today. I thought there was someone performing but they moved it to next week. Hey, have you been in the basement yet?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Cool. I might be going down soon. Not much reason not to at this point, right?”

“Uh, I guess not. I’d miss you, though.”

Suddenly she is paying attention. “Aww. I would miss you too.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

This gets a small laugh. “OK, but you know what I mean. Don’t lose hope. There’s still a lot left to live for.”

“Like the synthonic orchestra?”

“Sure. But I really mean it. Tomorrow is a new day. The sun will be warm again soon. Think about all the nice things.”

“Thanks.”

Her tone follows the words like a trained actress. “You know how life goes. Every time you think you’ve got a handle on it, something new is thrown at you. Sure, it’s scary. But that’s the exciting part! Better to have loved and lost and that stuff, y’know. And even when you lose, and it hurts, you can be grateful because it means that you really loved and you can really love again.”

I don’t say anything.

“OK, sorry for talking your ear off. You should come by this place sometime, I hear they’ve been doing some really interesting light-shows recently. They’ve got a performance by a group in April which invented a whole new color just for their lighting machine. It’s super cool.”

I nod. “Sure, that sounds good. I’ll let you know.”

She waves at me without turning around as she walks away.

III.

I’m only walking for a few minutes before stopping again. This time I spy a busker sitting on a bench picking away at a guitar. He seems to be done with the day’s performance. I reach into my pocket to grab a dollar, but then remember that I don’t have any cash on me.

The busker notices my motion and gestures for me to come closer. He’s an older man with matted gray hair under a flat cap. Two of his teeth are missing.

“You like music?”

I shrug. “Sure, doesn’t everyone?”

He smiles at my response. “Hah, well, you don’t sound too excited about it. You know, it’s not easy to see the miracle in things all the time. But the miracle’s still there. And it’ll always come back to you if you let it.”

I give him a curious look.

“Well, you don’t have to listen to me. But you know, I think it’s worth taking some time to find the little miracles now and again. Helps put things in perspective. Anyways, I’m not tryin’ to keep you. Just thought it should be said.”

He tugs on his cap amicably and I keep walking. The city streets are more populated than they were half an hour ago, but the crowds passing by seem unusually sober. Silhouettes of strangers pass me by in bunches of two to six at a time, arranged heterogeneously. The groups show no interest in me or any other group, each complete within itself. I overhear snippets of conversation.

“...but you have to keep trying. I believe you can...”
“...don’t worry, it’s ok, you can cry if you...”
“...you so much. I really need to tell you...”
“...never forget the time we spent....”
“...and you should know I will always, no matter what...”
“...never have to be alone again...”

A group of four, three boys and a girl, walks in front of me at a pace slightly faster than my own. Two of the boys whisper to each other occasionally; the other boy and the girl are silent. They turn left towards a small park and, on a whim, I follow.

It’s too dark to see much green in the grass, and so the park appears almost colorless. Dead trees loom ominously - I stare at the branches of one for a moment, then shudder and look away. I see a squirrel dart by. The group of four stop to look at the squirrel, and I keep walking. I catch a glimpse of a logo on one of their shirts as I pass by. It says, ‘basement gang’.

As I walk away from the group, I hear the girl speak.

“Listen,” she says. “I believe in you.”

The third boy, who was not talking before, responds: “It's going be okay.”

I turn around. All four of them are staring directly at me.

IV.

I cut through a desire path and direct my walking homeward after that. My legs feel heavy and my eyelids are too dry, both signs of tiredness. The ten-minute walk to my house feels endless. I no longer notice the city around me; everything fades into irrelevance beneath the need for sleep. My legs follow the streets on muscle memory, without conscious attention.

I fiddle with the key to my house for a moment, open the door, and walk inside. Three people are sprawled out on the couch, alternating between looking at their phones and talking to each other; I wave at them and they wave back. A friend is curled up on the floor, snoring loudly. Two more guys are standing in the kitchen making a small meal. Someone walks up the stairs before I have a chance to recognize them or say hello. A television plays ambient white noise in a corner.

The door to the basement is closed but I can see a washed-out pink light coming out from the cracks. I press my hand against the knob and stand there for a long moment, ambivalent. Then I turn around and head to the kitchen instead.

In the kitchen, the two guys have finished their meal and are now grabbing indulgent handfuls of chips from a large bag, munching ambiently. I take a chip and turn it over in my hand. The metaphysical bile in my throat rises again and I feel the urge to speak, but I can’t seem to find the words.

“What’s good,” one of the guys says, breaking the silence. “Sleep soon?”

“Sure.” I still feel bile. A nonverbal yearning is beating at my skull.

“Yeah man. Sleep is important. I hope you take care of yourself.”

The other guy nods in agreement. “Me too. We’re always here for you.”

“Mmmm.” Hard to pay attention to the words. I squint my eyes and try not to focus on the bilious sensation.

“Do you want to talk?” I can’t tell if the question is rhetorical. I don’t say anything.

“Life gets hard, but we go on. Always hold on to that hope.”

“You know you’re not alone. You can lean on us no matter what.”

I can barely muster a “sure”. My throat feels at once too dry and too moist. The metaphysical nausea has begun to blend unpleasantly with the regular kind. I pour a glass of water and stare into it between sips. When I look at it from just the right angle, the glass almost appears bottomless.

“We should get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day.”

“Yep. Let me just finish this water and then I’ll go to bed.” I chug down the rest of the glass and walk upstairs.

...
...
...

Then I walk back down and open the basement door instead.

V.

Three flights of stairs down into the basement. The first thing that hits is the ambient light. A very light salmon, almost more beige than pink, overwhelming the space, filling every corner. The second thing that hits is the tone. An endless deep ringing like a mix of a gong sound and a binaural beat, flowing a strange vibrating in through my ears and up into my forehead. After the first few steps I stop walking but my legs keep moving as if controlled by someone else. I make no attempt to resist.

At the lowest flight, the artificial basement walls give way to a huge natural cavern structure, stalactites covering the ceiling. The ground becomes damp gravel. The pink light grows brighter, reflecting off the mineral deposits on the wall to create a sparkling canvas like an unpolluted night sky. The stairs fade into the ground and I step into the massive underground chamber. I look up and see the source of the light, holding my hand up to my eyes to shield them from it.

An enormous, slowly rotating crystal looms suspended in midair in the center of the cavern. It is an irregular prism with hundreds of facets of different shapes and sizes, though the overall shape is generally spherical. From some of the larger facets of the prism I can see beams of light emanating, ending in bright spots which lazily circle the floor, walls, and ceiling of the cavern as the huge crystal rotates. It is nearly impossible to pry my eyes from it.

I am not alone here. Dozens of people sit along the sides of the cavern, staring into the crystal. They have sunken eyes and long, disheveled hair. They say nothing and pay no mind to each other. A few of them silently mouth phrases to themselves, over and over, though I cannot make out the words. Others have their hands clasped as though in prayer. When a bright spot passes over one, they shudder briefly in soundless orgasm. Otherwise, they are still.

I look again into the crystal and I see visions reflected back to me from each of its hundreds of facets. In them are my parents; my closest friends; childhood role models; girls I had crushes on; a dizzying array of fictional characters; symbols and archetypes. Each vision is a moment of catharsis: a promise, a secret confided, a tearful confession. Moments of trust, acceptance, compassion, love, passing over and over in front of me almost as fast as I can recognize them. An endless cornucopia of emotional resolutions without conflicts. The intensity of affect is so strong I have to keep myself from toppling over.

With great difficulty I pry my eyes away and step back right before one of the larger shafts of light passes by me. I watch it drift by the place I was just standing with fear. An awareness that to step into it is to step into a place that there is no coming back from. Instead I try to look back at the stairs leading out of the basement, back up into the city above. Those people, up there - how many have been down here? How many are just waiting, making the last little preparations for the day they enter without planning to leave?

Thinking about the crystal without looking at it makes an old, rusty instinct creak to life. It says: NONE OF THIS IS REAL. But then I think back to the events of the night and the instinct loses its force. How much of the world above is just an echo of this one? Once seen, never to be unseen; the moment of catharsis captured and reified, made permanent and unchanging. Ten thousand things stop being things-of-themselves and instead turn into raw material for catharsis rituals - a frantic yet fruitless attempt to realize even the smallest fraction of the intensity of the crystal in daily life. There is still the ancient instinct, the fear of the mirage, a defense against the trickery of illusions. But that instinct was not learned in this basement, and within the walls of the cavern it can be forgotten. There is no illusion. The visions are real.

I do not leave the basement. I cannot leave the basement. But still I face away from the crystal. There is a liminal moment; my mind is made up but my body has not yet been compelled to move. I glance back at the assemblage around me, searching for some sign of deadness, a hint of despair in their rapt gaze that reveals some dark truth hiding underneath. But I do not find it. Their eyes, though sunken in, are still alert and aware. Their jaws are not slack. Still there remains a feeling of fear, but it is not mine any more. There is nothing left to be afraid of, because there is nothing left to hope for. There is nothing left to hope for, because there is nothing left to want.

I turn around, take a seat on the ground, and look up into the crystal.