Exit the Old Soul

I want you all to come join me in the place where there's a welcoming light with an intensity that enhances the soul of acceptance. The light intensity blinds my better surroundings now after residing in shades of dark for so long. Not that you should consider that darker place I resided in for a long time to be anything resembling a cave, or even close to Plato's Cave. Consider it a place where enlightenment took place within a world surrounded by darkness of my own doing.

Living within that dark world for a while had nothing to do with a shame of my name or appearance. After all, with a real birth name of Mira Caruthers, I seemed ready-named for a notable career in my first few hours of existence.

The same could be said of me as a curious infant when I was given the contrived description by family and overly effusive family friends of looking like a unisex cherub seen on any ornate, European fountain. As a teen, my healthy, strawberry blond hair, expressive eyes and soft features kept getting comparisons to various past and present notables; everybody from Nicole Kidman to Grace Kelly--all the way to Mona Lisa.

Keep in mind none of this affected my ability to show a lack of ostentation when there wasn't an excuse to pose in front of a camera.

It was when I just turned five years old when I started a preoccupation with something miles away from familial flattery: Being engrossed in things that didn't normally interest a single person of my age.

Perhaps it isn't unexpected that those things would be found in the warm and inviting confines of your grandparents' storage room. In an old, stray box near a closet door, I had the impulse one ordinary day to reach in to feel a stack of small, round black disks and felt curious about the texture of the worn grooves on their surface. My grandfather entered the room to notice my tactile fascination with these things and told me what they were: Old 78's and 45 rpm disks from his formative years.

He dragged out an old turntable that belonged to him, plugged it in and let me play these old things. Ancient songs from the 1930's and 40's started wafting around the room and making a beeline for my eardrums. The music wrapped around my senses and bended them into something I was supposed to recognize, but I didn't know what. Songs about the Great Depression, World War II and more innocent longings of love caught me in a deep hypnotic state that took me inward to something unexplainable but pleasurable.

At the age of five, you don't question those gravitational pulls and keep doing what brings an inexplicable joy between your eyes.

My grandfather fortunately left the turntable and record up in that room so my periodic visits there would enable me to go off into my own time-stealing sanctuary. I did this while my family thought I was off playing video games or preoccupying my time outside.

Then a fascination with old movies happened by age ten, mostly as the result of introduction by my great uncle, who I spent so much time with at home when my career-oriented parents were out of town on business. The late-night darkness of my family's living room would frequently be bathed in the black and white flicker of old movies with a silhouette on one wall of my great uncle bowed in loud snoring sleep in my father's easy chair before the movies were over.

I frequently and successfully placed that painfully sleepy sight well outside my periphery while transfixed with the movie. I could swear I was close to creating a direct passageway into all those film classics from the 1920's, 1930's and 40's.

Even before I turned eleven, I was acting out scenes from old 40's film noirs, romantic scenes from "Casablanca" or musical numbers from "Singin' in the Rain." There was a conscious intent on my part to be mindful of not doing any of these impersonations when around my friends who didn't even know who these people or scenes were. You can only partake in pretense for so long, however, before your true feelings and soul bares itself to the people who know you better than anybody else. My descent away from civilized conversations with my friends and everybody else began with a series of three key confrontations:

The first was three days before my twelfth birthday when I couldn't resist going off on an angry diatribe about an old Katherine Hepburn movie. One of my friends expounded on being miserable the night one of his parents turned their TV to this black and white film. It was standard for most to all of my generation to degrade anything over ten or twenty years old let alone anything exponentially older than that. And I'd assimilated enough archaic things by this time to feel compelled in defending them once someone threw out any sign of vitriol toward them even existing.

"For God's sake, did you actually sit down and watch the damn movie?!"

This first, adult-inspired quote I uttered instigated my closest friends changing to bleak expressions whenever they turned their eyes toward me from then on. After I said it, the look I received in return was one of a typical twelve-year-old looking scornfully at one of their parents for speaking a harsh truth no kid wants to hear. Although let it be noted that I had a chance to reverse it. Any comment that freaked out one of my friends was always followed by a rapid eye blink and a blunt or implied: "What the hell?"

When I repeated the last half of my comment even louder, I expected one of my friends to reply in the form of a slap across the face. Instead, I heard a collective guffaw from my friends that I'd never heard come from them before, even when trading typical young female stories of which boy was the cutest in class and who was even the ugliest in the class. It was a mocking laugh a real world Charlie Brown wouldn't want to hear and worthy of banishment into a zone no kid wants to be in or stay in.

That place wasn't ready for me yet.

When my friends stopped calling by the time my birthday rolled around, the only place I could turn was my father and mother who were concerned that my friends were ignoring my existence and decided to hang around home for a week to help me through it. For all that time, even they didn't know of my cravings for antiquarian things. Still, I appreciated my grandfather and great uncle for keeping it quiet. My only concern was that my friends would tell everybody else I knew in school and proliferate into a cataclysm of personal belittlement.

Ultimately, the second confrontation happened when my parents found out one thing I'd hidden in the household: A small shrine to my interests. Usually, I'd kept my little collection of my grandfather's old records he gave me, a DVD collection of old movies and little antique trinkets from our attic hidden in my closet. When I was alone for long periods in my room, though, they all came out on my desk in a structured, circular pattern that resembled a shrine without candles in the center being necessary.

It was only weeks after the depression of what happened with my friends when I became a little too carried away and sprawled my shrine around my room when I thought my parents were gone for a night out. Their unexpected return home and a knock on my bedroom door couldn't give me enough time to hide anything.

I had no choice but to open the door and face the inevitable jaw drop from my parents who didn't immediately assimilate what they saw around my room. There really wasn't any second chance to explain it away when my father went in and asked why I had things from half a century ago sitting all around my no longer private domain. When you're twelve years old, you can't make yourself look normal saying you have an unhealthy attraction to all things retro.

Nevertheless, I tried to make it look like it was a natural progression of an unusual young mind.

"Those items, I...uh, I'm pretending to curate my own museum. You have to make sure old things never acquire a speck of dust," rolled off my tongue.

"But isn't there a time at the end of day when a curator goes back into the modern world? My dad asked with a slight quiver of amusement in his words.

"There's always a little bit of pesky past in the modern world," My mom counter-responded while brushing a lock of her overlong sandy blonde hair out of her eye and studying every little antique sitting on my desk.

She and I were close, but she always gravitated to staying in the present during any discussion. She also had a tendency to get rid of anything less than a few years old. I didn't tell her a thing about my increasing feelings toward older things out of fear she'd deem my old things worthless and throw them out behind my back.

"All my new things; they'll be back here tomorrow," I replied to the deafening and spooked silence to get this odd scenario out of my parents' head as fast as possible.

And that simple statement paved a path for me that lasted for through my formative years. Through my most impressionable teen years, I could always feel the subtle force of scrutiny from my family and the few friends I had whenever I mentioned something that hinted at any interest in something long before I was born. That led to more strategic times when I could commune with anything outdated and likewise setting up situations to show I still had an interest in every modern trend. But the family and friend scrutiny created little moments of insinuative dialogue that still ring in my head from random events along my timeline:

Me: "What's wrong with wearing a flapper dress to the costume party?"

Mom: "Because nobody will be there who's older than your grandfather. And if you really understand the past, you'd know being a flapper today won't win you any friends."
___

Me: "Old Corona typewriters don't have Microsoft Windows..."

Dad: "Computers only have writers working on them who still have a pulse..."
___

My friend Danielle: "Why are you head-banging to Johnny Cash of all people? I can hear it through your earphones."

Me (in liar mode): "This isn't enjoyment. It's research for music history in school."

Danielle: "Um, I go to the same high school you do, remember? We're already up to 70's New Wave Punk."

Me: "You wouldn't believe how angry Johnny Cash could get."
___

Mom: "You look just like a sickly teenager from the 19^th century with that gown and pale, makeup-less face..."

Me (in truth mode while in bed): "Mom, I still have the flu!"
___

Me: "I understand the meaning of everlasting love..."

My friend Elizabeth: "Is that why your last boyfriend said he thought you were the longest living woman alive?"
___

Me: "Do you think there's a chance of memory transfer from some random person in a prior generation being passed on to a random person today?"

Mom: "If there is, the chances of it landing in a college-age kid would be as fatal as a bolt of lightning hitting them."
___

Me: "I'm going to be performing as Desdemona in 'Othello' for my graduation performance in college."

Entire family: (Flummoxed)

And so began the third confrontation leading to the collapse of my soul that had already been standing as a house of cards. I was now studying acting in college with emphasis on stage acting. At this point, my fascination with the old went beyond being attracted to objects and instead an evolutionary journey into my own mind of why I was that way. Through the occasional process of meditation while in college, I didn't find the answer as to why I was attracted to things from history. Nevertheless, I managed to find that I naturally understood the psychological chemistry of people quadruple my age.

It's why I immediately gravitated to the role of Desdemona when nobody in the history of my university had ever played that role at my age. Yet what we manage to understand about ourselves so clearly won't always translate to those around you who think they know you well.

My family was immediately incredulous that someone of my age could possibly understand the part of Desdemona through and through. Even some of my acting peers were said to say behind my back that I couldn't handle it. When I talked to my acting teacher about the possibility of becoming a liability to those around me, he simply said "Don't be afraid; we'll try to catch up with you."

The night of the play, I managed to get into that zone of assimilating Desdemona so that I was her. There were a million real-life Desdemonas from the past and present who seemed to be in the wings by spirit to reroute their emotions through my mind. While the crowd reaction was effusive after the play was over, I could see my parents in the front row applauding, yet looking perplexed at what I'd accomplished. A strange silence came from them in the days following, as if they'd just discovered that their child was from another mysterious portal twenty years after the fact.

My fellow acting peers also distanced themselves from me after initial praise for the performance. I'd known a few kids in high school who had unusual personal tastes and ended up sitting by themselves at lunch or spending times alone off in the school library. It was always on the cusp with me, though now it was a reality you can't ever visualize until you experience it.

By the end of the school year, I was banished to some other universe by all I'd considered close. I couldn't even form a sentence when around them other than a defeatist one I eventually uttered to the dean of my school and my parents:

"I'm quitting school and going away to a place of my own for a while..."

My family didn't argue with me and apparently took it as an artist who had bouts of needing to be alone. They gave me some money to find a place to rent right after my request. But as the dissonant echoes of my footsteps leaving them and the school behind turned to unbearable noise in my ears, I wasn't sure that my upcoming sanctuary would be temporary.
______

I gave a name to my rental home sanctuary that was part of a small community located in the mountains, 40 miles from my hometown. Without having the pleasure of putting a sign up, I designated my sanctuary The Old Soul. This mostly furnished rental looked like an anthropomorphic version of me if I happened to eat myself to a state of turning into the size of a house. Despite a modern makeover on the exterior of my abode, the interior was a near snapshot of when it was first built in 1934, including original furnishings. The rugs, ottoman, chairs, lamps, appliances and everything looked as if the climate here froze them all in time until I was ready to arrive.

Once all that furniture intermingled with my own antiquarian possessions I managed to save and bring with me, it all seemed to blend in as a missing piece. Yet outside of the furniture movers who helped move in my own childhood bed as well as a few other familiar things from home, I knew these people would be the only ones stepping foot on this creaky flooring for a long time, if ever.

My first night there was all meditation, no media distractions, and looking out my living room window to the long line of the road that brought me here.

The road disappeared into the mountains and ended with the sunset that seemed to be melting over the road's farthest point. It eventually turned into my metaphor of looking down a lonely road of your own timeline.

Along that road was the thought that being alone would be the best thing for me to avoid being shoved into a shadow of bizarre uniqueness by any friends, associates or potential significant others.

The first month there held that perspective in my head without fail. As I did at home, I'd have my bizarre rituals of communing with archaic items, though now with more sophistication. Newly added to my new world was a 1950's-era Leica camera, older hardback editions of early 20^th century American plays and an old tea set from the 1930's to name just a few. All of these things I bought at a nearby outdoor flea market that set up every weekend near another small and lonely-looking community called Willow Hill a mile from where I lived.

My personal choice to be a void to the outside world let me allow myself to look more ambiguous sexually by wearing secondhand clothes, no makeup and a tight headband. That made visiting the small market and some of the stores in the nearby community all the easier for me. It seemed to work efficiently, because not a soul here would make an effort to even look me in the eye to pass a receipt let alone strike up a conversation.

By the second month, the repetitiveness of the situation forced me to start a diary to begin expressing my fear of this place being my life's beginning and end point. Then I evolved to writing daily, written confirmations that I most likely was the only one of my kind in my city. I expanded that later to my existence being endemic just to my state. When the third month arrived, I was sure I was the only one of my kind at least in the entire nation. I always left it open to the possibility that there was someone like me somewhere in Europe, Asia, in underdeveloped portions of Africa or a remote Pacific island where the young embracing ancient traditions was expected.

My end statement was nearly seared into the paper of my diary:

"My persona is the only one here; and the past may as well swallow me whole now or in the indefinite future."
____

Six months of living in isolation and your family paying for it can bring on a sense of panic of where you'll ultimately go. A letter from my family gave me an ultimatum that they wouldn't be paying my rent here into a seventh month and that I needed to come home to get my life in order. My only way of coping with that news was to go out the next day into the small community I'd gotten to know and take pictures of it with my old Leica.

The last picture I took of the flea market had a man who looked around 30 staring at me from across a table of antique mirrors as if he was sure who I was. It was the first acknowledgement of anybody showing interest in my existing here, even though I'd buried myself too deep to make an effort to find out who he was or why he was looking at me.

"Excuse me. Do you live here?" The man asked in confidence, despite it being obvious that I wanted to walk away. With his slicked down blonde hair, expensive khakis and long, tan suede coat, it was obvious he wasn't here to get lost in himself. The mirrors on the nearby table reflected him at every angle.

I stopped and shook my head no.

It didn't stop the man from walking closer to me and replying to my negative vibe. "I only wondered because...you don't act like everybody else around here. I should know, because I live in the other community a mile over the hill and visit over here once in a while."

"How do they act over there that's so different from over here?" I asked in a quiet voice without sounding like I was being sarcastic. The power of my voice was slightly atrophied from not talking much in the time I'd been here.

"Well, we talk a lot more over there and pay attention to one another. We have a teacher there who makes sure that happens every minute of the day." The man's reply was assured as if he was proud of it.

I had to stop and process that simple statement. The man looked at me as if he could see the wheels turning in my head. What he described immediately sounded like some sort of weird, outcast commune that was about to recruit me.

"By the way, my name's Aaron. About a dozen others like me are being trained in a covert camp by Lars Person....you know, the famous talent scout and producer. We ask you not spread the word about it, but you might want to visit and see what we're doing."

Lars Person? I had to take a loud gulp hearing that name since he'd discovered some of the most famous singers, actors and musicians of the last twenty years. And having him less than a mile away within a place that shouldn't be habitable for any famous person made me wonder what was going on.

Aaron reached out to hand me a business card that explained where this Lars Person sanctuary was. Keeping my eyes on Aaron, I took a few steps forward to reach for the card across the table of old mirrors. Most of the denizens working around the area didn't seem to care what was said, but I was at the ready to ask for their help if this guy wasn't for real.

"Based on a tip, I was told I might find another one of us here," Aaron shouted out to me cryptically while turning to head up the nearby hill through a foggy bank of pine trees.

His near mystical way of disappearing up the hill nearly gave me the incentive to go running after him to satiate my curiosity. I felt as tempted as Alice running after the rabbit. Instead, I retreated back to my home to read the business card and ruminate on the details of what happened as I was used to doing.

On the card was the odd title "Lars Person Training Camp for Young Talent with an Old Mind." Under that was a subtitle of "You're Not All Alone." The legitimacy of all this was an 800 phone number on the bottom that I called in the morning. It felt as covert as calling the FBI or CIA, but I had to find out if this place actually existed within comfortable traveling distance from me.

Instead of getting a live person on the line, I heard a recording:

"Thank you for calling Lars Persons' Training Camp for Young Talent. If you happened to acquire our business card, come meet Lars Person and his faculty. We're in the wooded area a half mile over Willow Hill near the giant gate adjacent to our ranch. You might just belong here."

_____

After taking an extended rest, the ranch wasn't hard to find the following morning heading over that woodsy hill. Nevertheless, I felt like I was trespassing on Area 51 based on some of the obvious security cameras I could see dotting the area and ones that couldn't be seen, yet could somehow be sensed.

Even though I suspected I'd be seen on security cameras, I didn't bother to bring my appearance back to what I was in my previous life. My ascetic and physically plainer existence nevertheless didn't stop my opinion that I still exuded an attractive aura when I became curious about something.

When I finally arrived at a large double gate with an electric see-through fence framing an open field, that curiosity increased to a realization this place was dealing in something more significant than I visualized. Was Lars Person working with the government on some secret experimentation with people in my age group? What I did know was that Lars Person was known for being an eccentric entertainment producer with frequent public skepticism about the talent he chose to produce. Yet he was always proven right in the end.

"Go on through; we thought you'd be here even earlier..." A voice uttered through a hidden speaker somewhere near the top of the gate. "Once the gate automatically opens, follow the path down the upcoming hill and you'll find our facility."

Spotting the giant ranch after seeing nothing but bucolic scenery was a bit of a Shangra-La moment. This was a hi-tech facility with two very large, interconnected buildings that looked like they'd be shaped as the letters L and P if seen from the air. I could also see some outdoor recreation areas nearby with large pine trees kept randomly in place to give a rustic feeling. Looking for a parking lot was irrelevant in such a remote area.

Standing in front of the main entrance was a crowd of people; mostly what appeared to be people around my age. I hesitated to think that they knew I was already here, though most of them were looking my direction as I made myself obvious. Slicing through the crowd was Lars Person, who I recognized immediately with his graying, shoulder length hair, prominently large nose and typical intense glare. He darted toward me.

"Come in, dear. Time's moving too fast, and we don't want you to waste any more of it," he uttered while grabbing my hands and leading me up to the crowd of 20-somethings.

"But don't you want to know my name?" I spouted in shock, realizing this was likely the most bizarre first meeting I'd ever had with a notable person.

"I know your name is Mira Caruthers. Aaron, the boy who gave you my business card, knew one of your former high school friends. You know, when you become a hermit with previous acquaintances, you're going to be found again sooner or later."

I felt like I'd been snitched on.

Nevertheless, it didn't stop me from looking positively at what appeared to be refreshingly happy, well-adjusted peers standing around looking at me. None of them said anything to me yet.

Mr. Person continued. "These kids are your blood brothers and sisters, in a sense. Why? Because they were all in your shoes before I rescued them. They're a part of a worldwide breed of old souls who had inexplicable desires to deal in things archaic...with no proof of reincarnation, mind you. It's something mysterious in their family DNA and still unknown. They never fit in with mainstream society, yet have indelible talents that I knew I could market worldwide to those dealing with the same issue."

My earlier thoughts of this being a weird commune started creeping into my thoughts again. Yet after hearing what Lars Person said, it felt more like I was meeting long-lost relatives. I could tell immediately from their inviting expressions that these people in my age range understood me from the minute they saw me. It turned out that Aaron had apparently passed on information to my friend Danielle who apparently was so blown away by my talent in college that she couldn't handle knowing me in a normal manner.

I also discovered through Aaron on this day that most of my peers felt the same way as Danielle. But they all experienced an extended guilt trip in thinking I'd be wasting my time sulking in my own far-away, private universe.

By the time I was able to digest all of that while being invited in for coffee, donuts and getting to know the students, I also realized that these students had as many dark pasts as I'd had. Some told me about how they still experienced extreme battles of depression, guilt and fear.

Yet they all said that working with Lars Person was the best thing they did to straighten out their lives while intermingling with people they could relate to. They were all sure that Mr. Person was going to jumpstart their lives into the world of the arts where their older spirits would finally be accepted by a worldwide audience.

Even Aaron dealt with paralyzing self doubts and being unable to be in any stable relationships through most of his formative years. He was here to enhance his talent as an opera singer while subsequently having the unique ability to know every aria of the 18thand 19th century by memory.

It was also obvious as I accepted a residency here for a free month that Aaron was eyeing me as his first possible workable romantic relationship.

That became more apparent later in the afternoon as he sang a romantic Puccini aria. He kept his eyes glued to mine through each note without anybody else appearing to notice. It was just one part of the "getting to know each other" party that evolved into each student displaying their respective talents to me in a nearby performance hall. Each student encompassed prodigious acting, dancing and singing ability that I'd never seen in anybody within my age range.

The whole educational institution was like no other, complete with luxurious living quarters for those in-residence. By day's end, I reminded Mr. Person that I was old enough to stay at this place without parental approval, unlike many of the students here who weren't. I ultimately didn't want my parents to know I was here, though I had the feeling word would eventually get to them once I'd flee my rental home. If nothing else, I figured it could help me have some sort of temporary catharsis in rekindling my abilities.

Yes, I knew I could potentially be better than any of the students here. It's just that I wasn't sure it would translate openly after living inward for so long.
_____

The first week at the Person school brought a hired staff to transfer everything from my rental home into my own dorm to keep a familiar sense of myself. Through teacher evaluation, it was determined acting was definitively my strength and that it could be a marketable skill to a sizeable audience. It was an exhilarating feeling that extracted my personality again along with being more physically aware after a lengthy break.

My first test was a play written by Lars Person himself. In it, I was supposed to play Sharon Sylvan, a fictional actress just turning forty and fighting the mental ravages of being placed into a conventional prison due to typecast for so many years. The psychological torture that needed to be displayed was beyond anything I'd ever attempted. Nevertheless, my first read-through had me flashing vivid, logical, internal images on everything about this actress, including her past, what she was thinking in the present and her future.

This kind of thing always happened to me when analyzing a role. How I reeled off an entire emotional, psychological portrait of a person who didn't exist was still a mystery to me. Nevertheless, it was the first time I became consciously aware of it within an environment that allowed me to. It also was my first attempts at giving a true definition to Mr. Person's designation of an old soul.

Using my approach, my first performance took me to the edge of despair and sanity in depicting Sharon Sylvan. All of this assimilated erosion of the veneer of fame was enabled through a fifteen minute scene of nothing but quiet dialogue. Mr. Person, the entire faculty and a few students--including Aaron--watched me intensely.

The room stayed silent after my last line: "My spirit won't be destroyed by fate..."

This silence reminded me too much of the night I played Desdemona months earlier. And I was right. My acting approach was even beyond what they expected from me. I managed to convince them that this place couldn't even teach or contain what I was capable of doing.
_____

Mr. Person called me into his office at the end of the week for a private meeting after I drained myself doing several more performances in front of him and his teaching staff. My dorm room, though, was becoming no different than my previous abode out in the middle of nowhere. Everybody had gone from being receptive to treating me as if I'd usurped the bounds of the place.

Nevertheless, I could tell Mr. Person was thinking more than he usually did on what he was going to say to me.

He wiped his brow and cleared his throat after I quietly took a seat by his desk. "You know, Mira, the magnitude of your talent needs to be self-contained. Without someone familiar in how it works guiding or control it, it might get lost finding where to flourish."

There was a moment of pause to see if I understood what he said before continuing: "I don't believe I've ever said that to any of my students."

I knew this was going to be a set-up to sign a contract with him so he could represent me to other theater or movie producers around the world. In fact, before I even registered what was happening, the contract was in front of me on his desk. The security of it from the outset looked appealing. It was a metaphorical wing from Mr. Person that would provide me a public acceptance along with a sanctuary at the same time.

A true decision couldn't be made right then and there. I only made the decision that took me to where I am now after telling Mr. Person I'd ruminate on it back in my dorm room. It was there where I encountered Aaron waiting by my door.

He apparently got word that Mr. Person was offering me a contract. This knowledge alone seemed to build an intense feeling in him that was about to build into an onslaught of words. Despite some of our past flirting glances at one another, we hadn't said a word to one another since my first day here. After a friendly greeting, I cautiously let him in.

"You know why I'm here, don't you?" Aaron said forthright without even sitting down in one of my nearby antique chairs.

"What do you mean, Aaron?" I had to ask with some necessary pretense.

"I think we both understand a lot of things that most people don't...including our own pasts and our destiny. I knew that when I first heard about you. And I could tell that when you finally came here."

"Ok, that might be true. But what happens when you link those two worlds together?"

"It creates a solid force of understanding between two outcasts. And likely a better chance at being accepted by the public out there who'll appreciate who we are."

"How do you know Mr. Person will be able to take you or me there? He's assuming a goldmine in us and all his...students. If we both failed together, we'd probably be wallowing in the sight of each other."

"No, I don't think so. I think it'd likely still be a salvation if there's any failure. Mr. Person's taught me to not accept failure. It's a binding part of the contract I've signed with him."

Aaron, with that frame of mind, leaned in with the assumption I'd understand where he's coming from and kiss him.

I backed away, though locked my eyes directly into his at close enough range. "Aaron, you shouldn't have signed that contract without thinking it over for a long time. Mr. Person is walking on untested ground with marketing people like you and me. You also can't assume that two old souls are going to be compatible in their own little world built by someone else."

Aaron turned slightly white and looked down at the floor. He finally replied after getting some color back in his face. "Just what do you intend to do here then?"

I paused a moment to think it over. "I'm still not sure. I'm contemplating going back home. I've delved into uncharted territory coming here. My psyche really doesn't want to handle any more regret."

One of the most horrible situations to be in is when a potential love situation completely collapses in front of you with nothing else said afterward. Everything that needed to be said was said in this situation, though. Aaron and I both walked away from each other without saying a word and down into the dark void of the hallway containing the dorms.

That moment with Aaron was contemplated in my dorm bed for several hours after the incident. Playing back what could be is always a dangerous thing, but I couldn't help but wonder what two old souls would be like living together. Perhaps I was mistaken on it not bringing some kind of euphoria. Yet I couldn't disconnect Aaron from what I now considered Lars Person's school to be: A training ground for a circus to exploit who we are.

Reading the contract in bed was now akin to reading a guilty verdict and a sentence to a lifetime of perhaps public acceptance, yet ultimately kept in isolation. It also gave half of any profits made to Lars Person as a further way to sell his young souls.

It's then when I made up my mind to go back to my parents and friends to face them head on. I figured it a better scenario than the shunning I found when arranging to have my furniture moved out at the end of the week and back into my parents' home. The welcome home by my parents was warm; the leaving of the Person school was akin to excommunication from a church.

My time being away seemed to be necessary to have my friends finally accept who I was, or least through an evolving process lasting more than a year. My own independence was in charge and would take me to auditions, a better management team and then to getting my own employment doing stage work.

Now you can join me in that welcoming light I've told you about. I've worked my way up to being one of the most celebrated Broadway stage actors of her generation and basking in a standing ovation after successfully tackling Chekhov's Arkadina character in "The Seagull" at the ripe age of 26.

I'm now the true role model of the Old Soul who found out she's far from the only one in the world. None of them have to necessarily commune together their whole lives to find their own way through the darkness of the unknown.