There is no reason to question the days and nights of living. There is no purpose behind deep diving through the soul. I’ve spent my entire life under the waves of emotional turmoil and introspection. The only thing to be found was a desolate highway that went no where.

I traveled one last time to the pit of angst and visited like a tourist in my own life. The sites and attractions were rusted and broken, discarded and shunned like a vulture’s dinner table. Only the bones of a last meal remained. I sat down on a beat up sofa and turned on an old 8mm projector and watched the scenes of a questionable life. 

An orgy of despair and heartbreak filled the screen as I smoked one cigarette after another, forcing myself to watch a movie that was made by a lousy director, a questionable writer and a hack of an actor. I had to stop the film and find some popcorn. The machine was busted and no one had worked the counter in years. I wandered back and sat back down on the couch which was comfortable thirty years ago. 

It was hard to watch the film that had been decaying in its tin. The hand held camera shook and created a nervous feel. The lighting was always poor and the dialog was trite and cliché. There were a few humorous moments but not enough to claim it a comedy. The tragic moments were light weight and void of resolve leaving one with the feeling that someone had been trying too hard.

The last scene filled the screen and I saw myself sitting in the dilapidated theatre filled with smoke and ripped up upholstery. I turned off the projector and measured burning the place down. I considered renting a bulldozer and leveling it. I even thought of nuking the joint, creating a nuclear winter of untold proportion keeping all that might venture forth at a safe distance. 

At the end of a myriad of visualizations, I calmly walked over to the paint chipped wall and took out a black marker. It was simple and perfect. I stood back and looked at my graffiti and realized it was the last time I’d ever visit the place. Before I shut the door that barely hung on the hinge, locking the pad lock and tossing the key, I stared at my final words. It wasn’t poetic or deep, intense or bitter. It was simple and to the point. 

“Bindo was here….. good night.”

I walked back into the sunshine and smiled to myself. I remembered an old tune that use to haunt me and I sung it out loud, went to the airport and settled in for a long flight.