The girl awakes. She stares at the sky, and finds herself in an open field. Where am I? I recognize this place, it's been in my head for years. My feet ache, I must have been walking for some time. To the left I see a train track, to the right a field of ready to harvest corn. The black layer at the lower end of the cob, the glazed kernels and dry leaves and husks give it away.

As she lies back and wonders, the setting starts to make sense. She's a few meters away from the house in which she was conceived and grew up until the age of nine.
I haven't seen corn from this close since I was that age.

We're about half way through October, and 25 years later.

Husks. I have met more husks in the last year than I ever have on any field of corn. Human husks make me feel tired and disappointed. The faith I had in the power of words and communication left, without a whisper. I had expected throes of death upon this exit, but found myself resigning instead. Watching movies, listening to songs and scribbling notes on odd papers (which I tend to lose time and again) solace.

Heroes. Some made it into the 21st Century. My friend x bravely faces his anchorite life because of love for his woman. He may only start to suspect the full extent of what is happening: the choice of a journey full of ordeal, a descent into hell and back, which will make him return with boons for many lovers and friends. He will learn all about himself, acquire skills and tools that will serve anyone who bothers to see the heroism close to home.

But I've seen more husks and cowards. Guys and girls, not man or lady enough to face a challenging journey. Politician talking days away. Or alcoholists, drinking brains away. Anorexic, bulemic girls. Gym addicts. People with a broken heart seeking comfort in the arms of über-humans which will always find a vein that you can drain.

I am a coward and stand in the middle of the circus, bewildered. I spot myself amongst the others, we're in paintings. Bosch, Ensor, Matsijs. We're ugly and happy with the person we've become. We are the same as the rest or better. The ones that stay behind are there because they chose their position, just as we chose ours. We are the world. We drink and laugh and satisfy the needs of our serrated circle of friends. For every tear there is a hanky, for every bleak mind a coating, gratification for every expression of lust.

Here in this field I am what I am. No more no less, about to die of starvation or hypothermia if I don't move soon. It's hard to say how long I've been sitting here, but my clothes are more loose, my black hair sticks to my flavescent skin. I want to go back, though I know I will be unrecognizable unchanged.