A Session With My Shrink: The First Day Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail

As I approach the entrance

I look around me, not one soul

attracts my senses. There is a map,

rather a plaque with a maps image

at the start of the trail. “Welcome

To Manning Park”, it says. It’s Judgment

Day, I think. But whose’ judgment

am I concerned with? The entrance

taunts me as I step forward. Welcome.

but I know I don’t belong. My soul

aches, cracks, weeps for the image

of the end. The plaque with a map

pointing due north. I recall the first map

I looked at. Its foreign language judged

my impressionable mind. An image

of lands, roads, and cities, not one entrance

specified. All desperate for the comfort of human souls:

Welcome!

They imply inclusion, as if a welcoming

will save their lonely despair. Maps

are just the skeleton of a culture's soul.

Pretentious by nature. The people will judge,

don't get fooled by their excitement upon your entrance.

They already have a stereotyped image

of who you are. And you, also, have an image

of who they are. As travelers, welcoming

new perspectives is The Drug. The act of entering,

seeing, and living lights a map

of the neurons communicating. As you judge

breathing souls

against their stereotype. While the souls

of their ancestors encroach on your hair follicles. Imagine

a cat spooked by the intensity seeping from the judges

pores at an ancient trial. The accused must welcome

death. I wonder if there is a map

for heaven or hell. Maybe subconsciously entering

the afterlife is what troubles my soul.

Will my living image influence my welcome?

Will my addiction to traveling map my judgment through the afterlife?

I’ve been told death has an enticing entrance.