The Place

The Place

By Stella Juliana Bonifazi

“Many things in the world have not been named; and many things, even if they have been named, have never been described.” —Susan Sontag, Notes on Camp

There’s a place we go. Sometimes it’s in the woods, sometimes in the mountains. Sometimes it’s in the middle of the block, off 29th and Memorial. It doesn’t have a name, and one should not try to name it. It goes against its nature. To name it is to disrespect it. Sometimes it’s blue, sometimes green, others yellow or pink. 

It has large, arched windows on every wall. Or it has none at all. One can only go if one doesn’t think one wants to go, or doesn’t know one’s going. It has a set of strict rules that must be followed or else it disappears. One can’t go to this place in good spirits. It would be pointless. One has to be borderline suicidal to even spot it. One can only go on odd-numbered days. No open-toed shoes. One cannot go if one remembers it. It has to be completely forgotten about for it to allow entry. 

To be in this place is like being on every drug that has ever been created, found, or dreamed of. This place provides what is needed, what one didn’t know one needed, what one didn’t think one wanted. One can’t leave. 

This place is cruel. It makes addicts, always in search of it. It can never be found when it’s wanted, when it’s needed, or when one thinks one can’t survive without it.