If you’re like me or the other zillion Homo sapiens racing through modern-day life, dragging baggage like dead weight while trying to better ourselves, I assume you too made some kind of plan for self-improvement this year—whether big or small—aiming to advance your mind, body, relationships, or even your career. You made resolutions, promises, and rules, vowing this year would be your bitch! For those of you in a better place, maybe you're simply refining yourself, making minor adjustments to an already great system. Or perhaps you did nothing because you're just that goddamn perfect. And if that's the case, well, this issue’s not for you.

But regardless of what you’re working on—or not—one of three things is happening:

You haven’t started yet.

You’ve started, but you’re beginning to doubt the process or whether you’ll see it through.

You’ve started and are doing great.

All three scenarios can be spun into a pro or a con, depending on who’s presenting the argument.

One could say that . . .

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'til next time...

We can’t control everything, though our egos would argue otherwise. Sure, you can pick which color socks to slide on today, choose to leave early to avoid getting stuck behind that goddamned school bus again, or skirt the edge of insanity by adding two shots of espresso to your Mocha Grande Frappuccino. But constantly trying to predict a hundred-mile-wide asteroid you never saw coming in the first place—that’s impossible. Dragging along years of bitterness, anger, and worry—a huge waste of time and energy.

So why do it? Why dread the things you can’t control? Why carry a mountain of worry?

Life is a series of lucky chances, random encounters, and risks we try to mitigate daily. We’re constantly dodging self-imposed catastrophes while holding it together just enough to avoid a meltdown. Each of us is on the verge of...

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'til next time...

Everywhere we look this month, we’re reminded to be “thankful.” Whether it’s a branded coffee cup, ads burning holes into our retinas, the mini billboards looming at the gas pumps, or Aunt Janis tapping her third wine glass at the dinner table, demanding everyone share what they’re thankful for, the message is everywhere—and so is the pressure.

Hell, even I’m talking about it. Jeez!

But for those deeply suffering—drowning in despair for whatever reason—being thankful, or finding something to be thankful for, is easier said than done...

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Too often, our minds become the battlefield for good and evil, quickly turning into ground zero for self-sabotage. It’s a brain parasite, eating away our resilience like piranhas. This illusion of love and self-hate creates an abomination resembling a snake eating its tail—except there’s no rebirth, just the recurrence of resentment and regret. We feast on indulgence and self-deception, lying to our reflection, knowing that this cycle is poisonous. It’s perpetual and agonizing, yet we keep making these revolutions, revisiting the barren wasteland of false hopes, and returning home with nothing but destruction and toxicity, assuming we’ll achieve a different outcome. So, here we are again, ending where we started, in a place that feels uncomfortably familiar—lapping infinity.

Some of us love playing the same song on repeat because it’s our anthem, our identity, all we know. But deep inside, we each want something more...

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When you look in the mirror, what do you see? Do you take the time to really look at yourself? To spend a meaningful moment with yourself?

What do you see?

Is it beauty, success, greatness—a future best-selling novelist? Or do you see a monster: unhappy, fearful, a failure? Perhaps a procrastinator, a fraud, a “fatty” undeserving of love and praise, or something else. Maybe it’s a bit of everything.

Maybe you see nothing at all.

And when I say look, I mean peering through those dazed pupils deep into your soul, having an unspoken conversation with yourself. A head check. A state of the YOU-nion with your subconscious.

Be honest. What do you see?

---

I rarely look at myself, but when I do, I see a...

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Helplessness is a dagger, leaving behind the nastiest scars. Its trademark: dual edges, cutting everyone involved and killing them simultaneously, with nothing anybody can do about it. It’s uncalculated, irrational, and sporadic—the worst kind of killer. At least, that’s how it feels when you’re knee-deep in shit, wondering how you’re still alive and struggling to understand your life’s purpose. It’s misery on a plate, and you’re forbidden to leave the table until you’ve swallowed every last bite.

You may feel like you’re stuck in a relationship, drowning in debt, losing your mind, addicted to drugs, or a slave to alcohol. Maybe you’re jobless, carless, homeless, and feeling like a burden to those around you—or yourself. Helplessness is knowing you inevitably need help...

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'til next time...

The inferiority complex is damaging and toxic, and if left unchecked poisonous to the blood. It quickly seeps its way into the brain and tarnishes all of your thoughts and every decision. It destroys your functionality, ruins relationships, and diminishes the potential to achieve the best version of yourself. It affects your self-esteem, self-worth, and self-confidence. It affects your Self and any sense you may have of it. It disorients you and leaves you stranded in the world, never knowing where you belong or where you stand. It acts like an ego and begs you to seek attention through any means possible. It’s narcissistic and its byproduct is the welfare state of mind. But like all things, our perceptions and our reactions those perceptions have drastically different outcomes depending on one’s life experiences and perspectives.

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'til next time...

Here we go. There’s no turning back now. I’ve officially added yet another thing to my “I’ve taken on too much” list and I'm now obligated to entertain you fine folks.

My newsletter is finally here after tons of procrastination, fighting over what to write, and struggling to believe no one will care to read it.

As I write this, I’m still winging it, so expect this thing to transform and progress over time, but regardless of the journey, I appreciate...

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'til next time...

there is no face in the window.

asylum.

a·sy·lum

/əˈsīləm/

noun

1. the protection granted by a nation to someone who has left their native country as a political refugee.

shelter or protection from danger.

2. an institution offering shelter and support to people who are mentally ill.

how confidently i announced

that ghosts were nothing more

than figments

of an imaginative (or perhaps deluded)

mind.

$2,000. help wanted.

i thought,

what the hell? why not?

the cameraman never dies.

it never crossed my mind

that the cameraman

could suffer a fate worse than death.

there is no face in the window.

they even provided me a camera;

some fancy gadget

they ordered off of amazon

that claimed to be able to record

the paranormal.

it was heavy. i figured if a ghost came at me,

i'd go down swinging 300 dollars

worth of equipment at their dead face.

we saw nothing.

honestly, as much of a skeptic as i was,

i've always hoped something

(or someone)

would prove me wrong.

as we walked through the hallways,

grainy, dim-lit footage marking our path,

i found myself hoping:

show me something, anything.

we marched along for hours,

with a kid four years younger than me

narrating the scene.

"12:34 p.m., eastern standard time...

no signs of any activity yet. my name is

kevin schumer, i'm here with my crew

and tonight we are joined by..."

he pauses.

"the cameraman," I finish,

which prompts a few uneasy giggles.

yep, that's me,

the eternal watcher.

i see and i record

for posterity.

there is no face in the window.

we were there until four a.m.

our eyelids had grown heavy.

our livestream had exactly one viewer.

perhaps that was why

i felt like i was being watched.

nothing had happened. no doors

had slammed, no windows broken.

we were alone.

yet i could not shake the feeling...

there is no face in the window.

i drove myself home.

headlights lit up the parking lot.

yellow lines. black asphalt.

then darkness again

as i made my way up

three flights of stairs

to my apartment.

my lights refused to turn on.

a power outage? or had my power

been cut?

i did not know. i was too tired to care.

tomorrow, my check would hit

my account

and then i could solve the problem

of late rent.

i laid down,

in nothing but boxer shorts,

awaiting the release of sleep,

and found that

i could not hold my eyes shut.

a feeling was sinking into my spine

like a numbing injection

and i found myself tingling with

some unseen awareness.

i was being watched.

there is no face in the window.

it has been

three weeks

since i had looked outside

that night

to reassure myself

that i was alone.

there is no face in the window.

yet the feeling did not leave.

it only grew.

more and more, i believed

i was hunted. haunted.

there is no face in the window.

each night i check the door,

the closet, the bed, the window—

wait, the window—

tonight,

(one last desperate cry,

the moment before the mind

shatters)

THERE IS NO FACE IN THE WINDOW.

it has followed me home.

now i will follow it home.

to my sanctuary.

to my asylum.

i am the face in the window.

you will feel me watching,

just as i felt it.

when you look outside tonight,

do not trust your eyes. trust

your instincts.

there is a face in the window.

I was home alone when they came. My boys were trekking up Mount Kyanjin Ri in Nepal and I was getting a little staycation. No cooking, minimal cleaning, reading, writing and sleeping without being awakened by earthshaking snores or multiple visits to the bathroom that didn’t coincide with my own.

I always thought I would have a heart attack and die if someone broke into my home in the middle of the night. Alternatively, I saw myself grabbing the surprisingly sharp pocketknife I keep by the bed and shocking said invader with a nicely placed jab to the neck…or wherever my flying fist might land.

I did neither.

It was my third night alone and I was sleeping like a baby when a hand covered my mouth, startling me awake for the seconds it took another set of hands to put pressure on my carotid arteries. At least, I assume that’s what he did. All I know is one second I was ready to bite a hand and scream, the next I was waking up in what appeared to be a one-room cabin. I was laying on a cot, hands and feet bound, while seven men sat watching me.

“I hope you don’t think you can actually get a ransom for me. We own a small business. We don’t have major profits. We pay our bills and have no debt. That’s it. You seriously chose the wrong side of town. You know we live on the blue and pink-collar side of town, right? I mean, you saw our house. What were you thinking?”

I babble when I’m nervous. Needless to say, I was nervous.

“You have been chosen,” said the only un-bearded fellow.

You can imagine where my mind went but all I said was, “Is this some kind of religious thing?”

“No,” replied a different guy.

“Kind of,” said a third.

Right. “What have I been chosen for?”

“To kill us.”

I giggled, also a nervous habit. “Great. Give me a gun and the keys to a car.”

“It is not that simple.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“We were sent here long ago as punishment. We had to live and suffer as you humans…”

“Whoa, what. Wait. You humans? Um, I am sure I don’t really want to know, but, if you are not human, what are you?”

“There is no word for us that you would understand.”

“Fallen angels?” I said, giggling again while my skin had goosebumps and a sheen of sweat.

“More like gods, than the angels that come to your mind.”

“Well, if you are gods, how did you get sent here?”

“We angered the Creator. Our punishment is eternal damnation. Eternal damnation is living and suffering as a human without end. We cannot die.”

“Then how am I supposed to kill you?

“It is the night of the seventh moon in the seventh year of the seventh century since we were relieved of all that made us gods and forced to be but men.”

“Okay.”

“On this night alone, and not again for another seven hundred of your years, the barriers between this plane and ours will open for seven hours – from now until dawn. In that time, if we are killed, we will finally throw off the chains of our earthly imprisonment and return to our true existence.”

“And if I kill you, I get to go home?”

“Yes.”

“So, give me a gun.”

“As I said, it is not that simple.”

“Yeah, I remember. So, what’s the deal?”

“We cannot just let you kill us. We must run away from you, and we have to try not to die. You have to catch us and stab us seven times with this dagger,” the un-bearded one said, pointing to a very pointy knife with a bejeweled handle that I hadn't noticed on the cot next to me.

“Well, I guess you’re stuck here because there is no way I can do that. Have you looked at yourselves lately?” They were seated, but it was obvious they were all in the over six feet, six pack, I eat steak for breakfast and bench-press your mom group.

’While the barriers are down, you will be able to tap into energies and powers you’ve never dreamed of. But you must figure it out on your own or else it would be considered cheating, and we will continue to rot in this hell.”

“Tell me how you really feel.”

“I did.”

“Oy. Anyway, I have never killed anyone, and it is not on my list of things to do. Couldn’t you take me home and get someone else to do it? Why not hire a contract killer or something.”

“We cannot hire someone. That would be cheating.”

“And this isn’t?”

They looked at each other.

“You have been chosen by the Creator.”

“You are fricking kidding me. You must have really pissed him, or her, off.”

“Clearly since we are here.”

“No, I mean, I am the last person in the world to choose to kill someone. Seriously.”

“If you do not kill us, you will die.”

“As I said, last person. I’ve been suicidal since I was 12. Get it over with. Just shoot me now.”

“You do not want to die.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I definitely don’t want to stab seven men.”

“If you do not find and kill at least one of us an hour for the next seven hours, you will lose a finger each hour. If you do not kill us all by dawn, those you have killed will rise as we have ever done these last seven hundred years we have tried to die in the many wars that have plagued the earth, and you will be beheaded – by seven strokes of seven angry immortal men.”

“That sounds horribly painful.”

The only one who hadn’t spoken looked at me with haunted eyes and said, “It is.”

I wasn't certain we were talking about the same thing.

“Fine, I guess I have no choice. Untie me.”

They looked at each other with a sense of hope or dread, not sure which. “You must free yourself. And you must do it without one of your fingers.” As he said this, one moved quickly to flip me on my side and, using something that must have been made for cutting off fingers, he snipped off my pinkie.

I was still screaming when they left the cabin.

I wasted fifteen minutes of the first hour whimpering. Then I started to think. Okay, if the walls are down, so to speak, and those guys were supposedly like gods, I must be able to tap into some powerful energy.

Why would I be chosen? I thought. Well, because it had to be someone who didn’t want to kill, who had a healthy fear of a painful death if not death itself…what else? Maybe also someone who wanted to believe in other worlds and beings or varying layers of existence… who wasn’t power hungry.I suspect someone who sought power would have a field day figuring out what powers he could get tonight and how to hold on to them.

I just wanted to get home so I could see my boys again. I might even take off from work and hop on a plane like they’d wanted.

A half hour had gone by before I thought, so, if the walls are down, on this amalgamated plane, my pinkie is not gone and the bindings on me do not exist.

And it was so.

I took a deep breath. OMG, I thought. I wanted to think myself anywhere but there, but figured I would end up fingerless and headless, so instead, I grabbed the dagger and went out the door. I thought myself into the form of an owl, carrying the dagger in my claws. I flew above the surrounding forest and began my hunt.

I found the first within minutes. I landed in the branch above where he hid, retook a human form and landed a death blow before he knew I was there. And then I added the six to complete the seven stabs.

And yes, I meant “a human form.” Why take my normal, five foot seven, 120-pound form when I could be six foot six carrying two hundred fifty pounds of pure muscle?

I thought myself into owl form and set off to find the other six.

I found all but one within the first three hours, but I hunted all night for the seventh, flying miles of circles around the cabin. I finally flew back to the cabin to rest and think. As I was landing, I saw him through the window. He was sitting, looking at the door, a gun in his hand.

Hmmm, I thought. Either he doesn’t want to go back, or he has to make a good showing.

I flew up to the roof. I heard him speaking.

“I know you are near. I can feel you. You will not be able to kill me, and my brothers will come back, and we will have to stay here. We will take your head and we will have life still. I don’t want to return to the ether. I have grown to love this world. I do not want to leave it.”

Great.

I wondered how to get in the cabin without being seen. Then I thought, why go in the cabin? If there were no air in the cabin, he would suffocate and die. Bingo!

I could hear him choking from my perch on the roof. Within moments, there was silence.

I flew down and peeked in the window. He was on the floor, unmoving. I thought restraints onto his wrists, just in case, and removed the gun from the room. Then I entered, dagger at the ready. As I stabbed him for the seventh and last time, his body faded away or perhaps it was just me, for I found myself standing over my bed in my home. Alone.

The dagger was still in my hand.