Written by Dennis Harvell
The Journey – The Maze of the Unfound
The Blur of the Open Door
The shop was smaller than a breath.
I moved through aisles that seemed to shrink as I walked, the shelves crowded with things I didn’t recognize and couldn’t use. I was looking for something—a key, a map, a reason—but the more I searched, the more the walls pressed in.
The owner didn’t see me. Not really.
When a stranger burst through the door with an emergency that wasn’t mine, the owner didn’t ask me to leave. He just looked for a key he couldn’t find, gave up, and walked out. He left the door wide open, leaving me standing in the center of a ghost ship, alone with the inventory of things I didn’t want.
The Beast on the Concourse
I stepped out onto the pavement, ready to leave the clutter behind. But the Bronx had grown teeth. Down the street came a dog, but its shadow was the size of a horse. It didn’t bark; it just existed with a terrifying, heavy gravity.
Its eyes were a mirror of every fear I’d ever tried to outrun. I didn’t think; I just retreated. I ran back into the shop and slammed the door, choosing the familiar cage over the giant unknown.
The Barber’s Ritual
When I turned around, the store was gone. The cramped aisles had dissolved into the scent of talcum and the glint of steel. A barber’s chair sat in the center of a neon-blue glow. I sat down, and without a word, the man began the ritual.
He moved with a precision that felt like mercy. He trimmed a beard that felt too heavy and “cut” hair that hadn’t been there for fifteen years. He was grooming the ghost of who I used to be. As he brushed the phantom clippings from my shoulders, he leaned in. His eyes didn’t look at my face; they looked at the weight behind it.
“Why are you so sad?” he asked, his voice like low thunder.
“You look so lonely. Do you want to talk?”
The Final Lie
I felt the knot in my throat, the one I’ve been carrying through the parks and the archives. I felt the truth ready to spill onto the linoleum floor. But instead, the habit of strength took over.
“No,” I said, the lie tasting like copper.
“I’m fine. I’m not lonely.”
The moment the words left my lips, the world began to vibrate. The barber’s face smeared like wet ink on a page. The blue light of the shop bled into the gray of the street until there was no floor, no chair, and no man. Just a muted voice echoing in a thick, gray blur—the sound of a truth I wasn’t ready to hear.
The Reflection
I’ve spent years building a legacy and documenting the endurance of others, but this dream was a mirror I couldn’t tilt away from. We often treat our mental health like a shop we can just leave the door open on, hoping no one notices the clutter inside.
Admitting to the barber—and to myself—that I am lonely doesn’t make me less of a ‘person.’ It just makes me human. This story is a reminder that the most important ‘sovereign’ act we can perform is being honest with the person in the mirror.
