It shouldn’t have happened this way.

This was just another regular walk around downtown. I could feel the smooth breeze of the Phoenix spring nights on my skin, and absorbed the relative silence of the city blocks as I crossed them. I decided to be adventurous this time around, and cut through a smaller street to return to my apartment.

I turned my head to the left and saw it, on the corner of McGrant and Van Reagan streets. Once I laid eyes on it, I stopped my leisurely stroll. My heart was skipping too many beats. What I saw couldn’t physically impact me, but I began to shiver internally just by its presence. I was afraid.

I was afraid of a vacant lot.

The empty lot, with small rocks strewn around the surface, a layer of gentle brown dirt covering the entirety of the square. How far down that dirt went, I’ll never know. The “For Sale” picket sign on its southeast corner could only begin to pierce into its depth. That “For Sale” sign, with its red bold letters decaying one by one, the white paint chipping off its wooden pole.

There was nothing about this lot that made it worthy of words of beauty, kindness, passion or love. It was dirt as far as the eye could see (if one’s eyes could only see as far as the block-length of the lot). It was disgusting.

It wasn’t long until I saw the lot as a representation of humanity. Each speck of dirt was a human being, each rock the woes created by ourselves and our greater universe, the “For Sale” sign its supernatural protector and destroyer. We’re all laid flat, drifted by the wind and stomped on by our troubles. When one suffers, everyone suffers. As the days, months and years pass, the meaninglessness of the lot becomes more apparent. So does the insignificance of humanity.

I saw this lot and thought of my life. All the work I had done, the friends I made, the family I grew up with. The words I had written and the songs I had listened to. The exhibition openings I attended at Roosevelt Row, the shows I saw at Crescent Ballroom, the pickup basketball games I played with Mayor Greg Stanton at the YMCA (Number: 0). This vacant lot told me, “Leave all that behind and embrace your emptiness.” And I obliged, because it was an empty lot and it made me really really sad.

As this lot asked itself, “What am I to sustain life if there is somewhere better to do it,” I asked myself, “Is humanity really the best species this universe has to offer?” I never got the answer to that question, mostly because it was a weird and nonsensical connection to make.

I passed many other lots that night, but none unreasonably impacted me as much as the first. I’ll likely never cross through that section of the city again. The lessons it taught me were dark and soulless, but necessary.

If you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.