A subito crescendo of light knocked me to the ground entirely; my every sense was overwhelmed. Once my eyes adjusted to the scene, it was my brain to be toppled, as there before me was a scene of something out of only fantasy and film.

An entirely marble room, the size of a basketball court, with humungous pillars on each side. A brick-laid street, dug right into the marble floor, led up to an incredible stage with a throne of glass. On the throne, a giant man with a thick brown beard and a look of pride and anticipation of joy. His boots were massive, leather things, and the rest of his garb was something like a space viking. Yes, a space viking. That’s the best way I can describe him. With a scepter of silver in right hand, and a glint of cheerful disbelief in his eyes, it was clear that this person of stature had been awaiting my arrival for a long time.

Note, dear reader, that it has been years since receiving such a look. ‘Good to see you’ wasn’t a phrase familiar to my ears. Let me explain.

Living in a city is hard, especially on your own. But when my father dropped me off at Fordham that September morning and waved goodbye, I thought I couldn’t be more prepared. A childhood of insensitive meddling never let me write, and this was my chance to finally focus and just do exactly what I’ve only wanted to do. Of course, just because you choose ‘English’ as your major doesn’t mean you’ll be free to sit down and write ‘the Odyssey.’ Books to read, assignments and research, and not to mention that New York isn’t exactly the best place to find time alone. People, inhabiting every inch, every square inch of my world. I became depressed and decided I hated writing, and I needed something to pull me in a new direction.

Of course, that’s when I met Andrea. For once in my life, I found someone as cynical and directionless as me, but we loved each other for exactly that reason. We gave each other meaning and direction, we thrived in our collective disillusion. We got high and imagined Utopia, and slowly but surely my writings began to sprout again. Unlike the focused prose I’d tried at when I was a teen, it was figurative and poetic, and very allegoric.

Hold fast though, dear reader, for it was in this time that I met her friend Scott. Scott was athletic and ambitious, assertive and electric. He was a freight train careening toward a life of success and stature, and I realized that I wanted in. His school was business and his major was finance. Met with some rolled eyes from Andrea, I made the switch and started crunching numbers, balance sheets, and NPV equations. On the weekends, nobody lives bigger than a NYC finance undergrad, and the list of clubs I knew became varied and a blur. Andrea stuck close and we had outrageously irresponsible fun with the whole gang, but in junior year, I felt a sadness from her about it all. This couldn’t be what she wanted to be doing, or even who she wanted to be doing it with. I felt that once I got out and got a great job, I’d make enough money to move us somewhere quiet and alone, and we’d finally have our space and time to do with what we please. This, I learned, was a fantasy in my heart.

Senior year, Andrea told me she’d been sleeping with Scott for about 6 months, and couldn’t keep hurting me with the secrets and lies. We broke up and found ourselves in a web of passive-aggressive social faux-pas. It was no longer clear who the right friends were to be seen with, so I simply avoided them all. I became anti-social and intent to just get top grades and get my paychecks rolling in. I did this fairly uneventfully once I avoided all social contact, so that would be the silver-lining, if you’re looking for one.

On the day of my graduation, my father told me he was very proud. He also mentioned that he’d been dating again, sold our house, and was moving to Santa Fe with her. My things were safe with my aunt in Fairfield, CT, and he was very sorry he hadn’t been in touch about it for the past year or so. Of course, I didn’t freak out since I’d already landed a spot at L.E.K. consulting, and was planning on working 18 hour days for the next two years. As far as ‘my things’ were concerned, I wasn’t planning on seeing them or the house for a long time anyway.

The years rolled by, and in a flash I was 28 and doing well for myself. Consulting was perfect for a wannabe storyteller, especially since I managed to inherit my mom’s good teeth and my dad’s good hair. A week after my 30th birthday, I walked into my boss’ office and quit my job, and moved to the hills where my cabin awaited. Planning the cabin and outlining the plots I’d be fleshing out, to become a world-renowned novelist, was more than enough to occupy nearly every moment of my years from 23 onward, not to mention frequenting the whiskey bar scene and the occasional coworkers’ birthday or bachelor party. After Andrea, I was no longer interested in real relationships, just the ones that I could craft in words of my choosing.

Sorry for the sob story, but I need you to understand these things. If you’re reading this because I’m gone, found after some horrific end met while wandering this dreamworld, I need you to know how important it was that this huge, strange man knew my name, and was happy to see me. I need you to know that I had only got up to my knees before breaking down at his look of joy, and I’d never sobbed harder in my life.

More in a bit…I should probably write about what happened next, but I’m exhausted. Night night.