Consider the arrival of a new tenant to a basement apartment. He is a young man in his late twenties. He has a goatee and sideburns, because the year is 1998, and most young men of that time had those things on their face. He wears jeans and a t-shirt, has very few belongings, all of which fit in the bed of a rusted pickup he’s backed into the drive of an old home. He turns the key in the door and enters for the first time to scope out the place he will call home. It is possible our story begins here.

It is also possible it ends here. Had we been following the previous tenant, this might feel right, as an ending. Perhaps our concern should be with this other person. He too is a young man in his late twenties, his appearance so similar as to be the same, whose departure is its own beginning. So you see, these decisions of story are arbitrary, and fallible. Mistakes might be made, wrong choices, when we attempt to decide such things.

And the question is, where to go from here. Which young man should concern us? The one arriving, or the one departing? And if we choose incorrectly, what then? I say we, but clearly it is I who must do the choosing. I must decide for us. And you must trust me.

I choose the man arriving. We will begin there. It will be our point of entry to the story, but not necessarily the beginning. Though at some point we may find ourselves back where we began. Or starting over. It all has much to do with the house.

The house has been crouched over the basement for one hundred years. It has a long history, and this history is unknown to us. The history may matter a great deal, but we cannot know how it matters, only that it does. We cannot know all the souls who’ve lived in the home, only that they have. Meals have been prepared, meat cooked in ovens, sauces simmered on stoves, bottles of wine spilled, children conceived. Wallpaper has been chosen, installed, enjoyed, become tiresome, been removed. Terrible fights have occurred. Love has been shared. And the residue of it all lingers like smoke in the walls.

People have died within these walls, and some have lived, more or less. There was word of a suicide. These details are lost to us. We know only that they must influence anyone who enters. Some people are more sensitive to these things, some less. But the house has had experiences over time, and absorbed them, as all houses do. And these things come to bear. They matter.

They matter because the basement is no longer a basement. Where once it had concrete blocks for walls and bare earth for a floor, it now has a carpeted floor, finished walls painted a neutral shade to beckon new tenants. The house above has been cut into four separate dwellings. It is no longer a family home, but home to many, some for short periods of time. People come and go now more than ever before. The life of the house has accelerated, as the house itself has aged. The older it gets, the faster it spins. It might wish to hold its weary head.

So there is risk involved in choosing where to begin, you see. But we've chosen. Or rather I've chosen, and you must trust me. Let us begin.

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

-"The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath

I read this book my sophomore year of high school, and it really spoke to me. My entire life, I've been indecisive about my future. To know that I'm not alone in this exact feeling comforted me somehow.

When I was 18, I had two choices: stay home and save for college or marry the love of my life. If I stayed home, I couldn't be with him for another 5 years. He was in the military, and he had to be stationed over 800 miles away. If I left and got married, I knew I would have to put off college until we were permanently settled somewhere. Both opportunities quickly approached, and the metaphorical figs were hanging in the balance.

Esther chose nothing, but I chose marriage. Still, I feel like a woman stuck in a tree, scared to choose what happens next.

Maybe it never ends; we eat one, move on, and find ourselves in front of another. To me, the thought is frightening. We are pushed onward regardless of our protests. Everyone has to choose just one or starve.

I want to pick them all and savor their sweetness, but that's impossible.

I can only hope that I never wait too long and find myself with nothing at all.

Love potions. Such a waste of time. Mr. Heartsick sitting in front of me is starting to ramble. I can’t concentrate. I let him drone on about her freckles and hair and how her giggle makes his chest constrict. When he’s done I’ll give him my speech about how love potions cause a temporary infatuation that slowly fades out, and he won’t listen to a word. He’ll give me almost as much of his attention as I’m giving him my own now. The truth is his only thoughts will be of basking in her infatuation and not a thing about what he needs to do to maintain it. And the truth is that right now. The only thing I’m thinking about is getting a hold of Ty and how quickly he can get me a fix.

As he wraps up his pain-stakingly detailed description of his fair maiden I grab a rose quartz bowl. In goes some cinnamon, vanilla, and cloves. I add some powders that I keep premixed. Dragon’s milk. Rose petals. And just as he becomes too caught up in my ritual to remember every single eyelash he’s ever pulled from her cheek and told her to wish upon, I get to the histrionic part of the show. A single drop of fae blood. Translucent and slightly iridescent. His breath catches as it hits the milky surface. It’s instantaneous. The contents of the bowl turns pale gold and shimmering. It’s liquid light. I fill a vial, and his hand reaches before I’ve even got the cork in.

“I need you to know that this will not cause love. This will keep her infatuated for about a week. The infatuation will slowly fade. You need to have a plan to gain her interest during the time of this infatuation. Help her fall for you. Do you understand?”

He shakes his head and grabs too quickly. I let him leave, though I doubt he has any plan. She won’t fall in love. He’ll sneak her some liquid love into her tea or her wine and become so caught up in her sudden unyielding interest that he’ll never do anything to keep her around.

I’m spent, and I need a hit. I convince Ty to stop by and then knock out while I’m waiting. I wake to his cool hand on my forehead. He looks concerned but also tired. His soft, bright eyes are concentrated frustration with the slightest trace of relief. I miss when those eyes shone with love for me, and I can’t help but feel disappointment in everything I’ve become.

“Mia...Damnit. I thought you said you needed to replenish potion supplies...I thought you were off the coal...”

I think about lying. He won’t believe me, but he might give me enough to make it through the night without the shakes and the sweats. I’m weighing my options when he pushes me off his lap and makes for the door.

“Ty, wait! I have enough for work, so I just need enough for the night. If I could just get like a coin then it’ll make the dreams easier on me...”

“I didn’t bring any. I’m no fool, Mia. You aren’t using five coins a week of fae blood making love potions, which seems to be all you’re selling anymore...”

I can’t believe him. He’s pacing the kitchen clearly unsure of what to do with me. I knew that he probably suspected that I was still using fae blood, but I figured that he was playing along to avoid putting me through having to say it.

“If you want me to stay I can. I can talk you through the dreams. Give you dragon’s milk so you sleep. I can help you relax through them. Help with the shaking. I miss you. I hate to see you stuck on this...”

“Can you go now? I have other plans tonight anyway. I don’t need you to make me feel guilty or judge me.”

I know he’s not trying to do either, but I need him to leave. He looks defeated. He gives me a quick, hurt nod. I walk him to the door. Our hands meet accidentally at the knob, and I see his face tighten. A quick kiss on my forehead and he’s gone.

If Ty won’t help me I have only one other option. I have to go to Callie. The lowest of the low. She’s a disgusting creature. A pixie that feeds off her own kind. It’s bad enough for us witches that are addicted to fae blood, but at least we aren’t spilling our own magic for fun. Maybe for profit or for spells sometimes. But I’d never dream of using another witch’s blood. Not to mention that the mere fact that she is an addict suggests she was doing something unsavory to cause her to get a taste for the drug.

I toss my cigarette out as I hit the buzzer for her apartment. The smell of rotting fruit drifts up to her front door from the alley, and I am torn between wishing she’d buzz me in and hoping I never have to see her again. I hit the button again three times in quick succession and almost immediately receive the sharp click of the door unlocking. The speaker must be out on the intercom. No surprise in this hovel.

“Mia. What’s up, babe? I like your hair dark like that.”

“You gonna let me in then?”

I push past her into the dark apartment. Her power must be out. This small studio is a fire hazard at the best of times, but right now it’s filled with smoke and what looks to be every candle the south side of the city holds. She’s close behind me, so I steal myself for whatever she might ask for in return. She’s horrid, but she’s also smart. My eyes are dilated, and I’m sweaty despite the cold. Not to mention that with her being a pixie she can probably smell me detoxing.

“You’re gonna let me do what I want with you, right, love?” My hand is on the nape of her neck, fingers wrapping through her lilac hair. I whisper into her pale clavicle, and I feel a small shock course through her skin. She leans into me, and I can tell this is going to be easy. I grab her hair hard and push her to the mattress on the floor. An hour or so of my hands and mouth violating her until she’s breathless and disoriented. I let my fingers slowly trace the small, crescent moon birth mark on her hip. She’s calm as she breathes out a light, approving sigh letting me know that we’re even.

“There’s needles and bowls on the mantle, but this time can you take enough so that I can drop too?”

I nod to her, but inside I’m nauseous. She’s going to drop her own blood? I’m no longer sure she’s a safe resource. She’s always disgusted me, but this is low even for her. I’ve never met a junkie using their own blood. Blood releases magic. The more you spill the less the being contains. The more you spill the more you have to use next time. At some point…you only have so much magical blood.

I pull a syringe full from her spidery, glowing veins and empty it into a crystal bowl. I drop the bowl into one of the larger candle’s flames. The smell is intoxicating. Sharp, biting citrus with sweet, sticky sugars clinging to the edges. The blood coagulates, no longer beautiful and iridescent but a matte black mess. I grab a dropper and it takes every bit of restraint I have to feed Callie first. I kiss her mouth open and then let a single drop slide onto her tongue. She smiles and lets her eyes flick upwards as she crashes into easy sleep. I pull the rest out and fill a vial from my bag I left near the front door. Then I take my drop. And suddenly everything is easy. Suddenly Callie isn’t such a disgrace. With her translucent skin and her pastel hair she’s actually quite lovely. I drift into sleep. And I don’t remember a thing.

In his book The Power of Now, Eckhart Tolle suggests a little thought experiment. He says close your eyes and say to yourself I wonder what my next thought is going to be, then become very alert and wait for that thought. Be like a cat watching a mouse hole, waiting to see what thought is going to pop out.

The first time I tried this experiment, I made it about one pico-second before a thought arose. The second time, about the same. Over time I learned to just keep asking the question over and over. Each time a thought arose, to immediately ask myself what the next one would be. After a dozen or so attempts over a few days, I finally began to experience a few seconds of walking or sitting in peace with not a thought in my head.

Never too long, though, as I’m a most obsessively compulsive over-thinker. I torture myself with my own thoughts, self-criticism, anxiety over unpaid bills or social slip-ups. Saying the wrong thing and being unable to forgive myself. Or sometimes even saying the right thing and constantly replaying the audio in my head, relishing my moment of glory. Which is exactly why I was so interested in this experiment. I need help. And the more I tried to stop thinking, and actually started to succeed a little bit, the more I started to wonder where all these thoughts were coming from.

Most of us associate ourselves with our thoughts. That is, we don’t put any distance between ourselves and our thoughts. We often don’t just fail to see ourselves as the thinker of our thoughts, we completely confuse our identity with our thoughts.

But when you challenge yourself to still your mind, to recognize when it is racing out of control, you find yourself stepping out of the wind tunnel of thought, and you realize it can be quiet in your head. At least for a moment.

Then a thought will arise.

Where do they come from? Why do they come?

If you think about it, thought is a lot like breath. You can control your breath if you choose. You can take a deep breath, or a shallow one. You can hold your breath. But when you aren’t focused on your breath, when you’re not thinking about breathing, breathe arises on its own. You don’t have to do anything.

Thought is similar. You can focus your thoughts. You can choose to think about something. You can choose to not think about something, and fail. (Try now to not think of a hairless pink monkey). You can solve a problem, plan your day, choose to place your fingers on a keyboard and type some words. But when you aren’t focused on your thoughts, thought happens anyway. It just happens.

Why?

Where do these thoughts come from?

I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit. And here’s what I’m thinking. Are you ready for this? You’re not. But I’m going to say it anyway.

What if… just what if… what if thoughts are perceived?

See? I knew you weren’t ready. But bear with me. What if thought doesn’t come from the brain? I know that’s a crazy thing to say. But no one has ever sliced open a brain and removed a thought. Just like no one has ever sliced open a brain and removed a sound, or a feeling. Or a sight. You can damage an area of the brain, and this will impair its ability to perceive, or process what it perceives. But these perceptions are not coming from within the brain. They are processed by the brain. They do not arise in the brain.

The sound of a dog barking is perceived by the ears. The feeling of silk is perceived by touch. The sight of a cloud is a perception made possible by the eyes.

What if thought is another type of perception? It’s not as crazy as it sounds. You’ve had great ideas before and not known where they came from. They just came to you. Scientists have made some of their greatest discoveries in dreams. Musicians wake up in the middle of the night with a song in their head and grab a guitar to record it.

Now, whatever it is that’s out there generating those thoughts that are perceived is another question entirely. It’s probably some sort of universal consciousness. Or maybe a hairless pink monkey with a dipping stick, blowing invisible thought bubbles.