Rensselaer is the City of Lost Souls, which is not a wistful turn of phrase, but the truth that no one tells. You only have to walk down any street and listen to the desperate howl of this city. Their meager whimpering creates the Howl. It’s a right of passage that within this city, your heart makes a noise that is so desperate and deafening that it has gone silent. It’s hardly recognizable over the sounds of the train.
Their cries are silent. Between the train tracks and the river it’s the clutter of noise that keeps us from calling out to anyone that can help. The sound remains silent, although it’s there, trapped between the deafening cries of the train and the delicate flow of the river. For that, who would rather listen to the cries of thousands of disenfranchised souls. Albany is Tartarus of Greek Lore. It’s a city of grey, where lost souls wander without a purpose. We wander aimlessly along these streets, going in circles. Every day is the same, bringing no challenge to our spiritual evolution. The day remains the same and so do we, without growth, we rot and disappear.
Lost souls are the only ones worth fighting for, just like lost causes. We see no end in sight. We must be shown. Even still, the souls will refuse, for they’ve grown stubborn and afraid of change. If we’re shown heaven, we’ll convince ourselves that it’s really hell. It’s a matter of some form of ‘mental gymnastics’ that we convince ourselves that nothing can get better. It’s this more than anything that makes us lost souls. It’s this philosophy more than death that makes us lost. We refuse entry into the gilded gates of heaven and we refuse sleep.
There is no center, yet we revolve around something. If you can pinpoint the source, perhaps you can find something to separate us and send us flying free off into space. The souls are caught between the two beams, one being the train and the other being the river. The souls cling to the river in hopes that the ferryman, Ishinigal, will grant them free passage to the underworld. Ishinigal doesn’t stop, unless they have the glorious ‘Coin of All-Father’, which is granted to one who truly deserves to see the wonders that wait beyond this eternity. No, their fate is to return. Eternal Return.They get frustrated and wave their fists at the ferryman, wondering why there seems to be no other alternative for them besides this suffering. They turn on each other, tossing their coins at the river, throwing fists, fighting, clawing, drowning. An unprecedented atavism prevails in a city with an overabundance of souls with life as a lost cause.
The river by our side seems to call to them, yet when they come it speaks not a word. This makes them bitter. They turn on the living, as well as themselves. Angered souls are known to chew on the living. It amplifies our frustration with life. Frustrated spirits do this because they want to bring you down with them; they want others to feel just like them. You try to rise above it, but when you look in one direction you hear the train and in the other you hear the river. In between, you hear the cries. Their amplified by the reverberations on either side. You’re trapped and forced to listen to their bitching. After a decade or so, you start to complain. After a little longer, you understand. It’s in this way that the cycle is secured and propagates its rotten philosophy into the future, thus the self-fulfilling prophecy is protected.