July 31, 2025 • 45 mins
The sidewalk glistens after rain as a man wanders through a city that feels increasingly distant from him. Something isn't right—the world seems to be bending around him, familiar yet foreign. When he sees what appears to be his own death on a convenience store TV, a chill runs down his spine.
"The Belief," the third episode in the Grandeur series, takes us on a haunting journey through what Anthony calls "the hollow hour"—that liminal space where a person exists after losing everything. Not just rock bottom, but the rarely discussed territory where identity itself begins to dissolve.
We witness a man's gradual disappearance from the world and from himself. Once successful with a career and relationship, he now navigates homeless shelters where violence and death become background noise. He carries two significant objects: an engagement ring for the girlfriend who died before he could propose, and a mysterious "night" that once hummed with meaning but has gone silent.
What makes this narrative so powerful is its unflinching portrayal of the part most transformation stories skip over. Before the breakthrough, before the rise, there is often a period of complete emptiness—becoming "a shadow in the margin of your own life." The protagonist stops speaking, stops being seen, and begins to question if he exists at all.
Yet within this decay lies something sacred. As Anthony explains, "No man ever truly climbs until he's knelt before his own ruin and has refused to call it permanent." The complete stripping away of identity creates space for something new to emerge. "The only thing more dangerous than a man who has it all is a man who's lost it all and didn't die."
Are you carrying something that's stopped humming with meaning? Where in your life are you pretending to be fine? When was the last time you felt truly invisible? These reflections invite you into your own journey through the hollow hour—and perhaps toward whatever waits on the other side.
Connect with Anthony through the chat function in the podcast description, email at anthonyatgentsjourney.com, or on Instagram @mygentsjourney. Remember: you create your reality.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast.
My name is Anthony, your host,and today we are in episode 3 of
Grandeur.
It's called the Belief, solet's go ahead and let's get
into the cold opening.
(00:20):
It isn't raining anymore, butthe sidewalk still glistens like
it remembers, as if the citydoesn't know how to dry off, or
maybe it doesn't want to.
He walks slower now, notbecause he's tired, but because
(00:40):
the world feels hesitant, likeit's waiting for him to catch up
, like it knows something hedoesn't.
The early morning haze clingsto the buildings, making
everything look like an echo.
Signs flicker too softly, carsroll by too quietly, even the
(01:03):
pigeons seem unsure if theyshould scatter or stare.
A cyclist whips past him toofast, too close.
He doesn't look back.
Just a gust of wind and thesound of tires against wet
concrete.
A couple on the corner laughstoo loud for the hour, like
they're trying to prove thatthey still feel something.
(01:26):
A little girl drops her stuffedrabbit on the crosswalk.
He bends to grab it andoutstretched to return it, but
her mother yanks her forwardwithout a glance.
He stays there for a momentjust holding it, soft, worn, one
ear matted, the other floppedsideways.
(01:47):
It smells faintly like cinnamonand sidewalk dust.
He kneels besides the bench,places the rabbit down gently,
next to a newspaper that's threedays old and a cup of coffee
that's never been claimed.
The page flutters just once andthen stillness.
He pulls out his phone to checkthe time no service still.
(02:11):
The clock blinks normallythough 707.
That number again.
He stares at it, the kind ofstare that tries to break
something open.
It's broken, he mutters, but itfeels like a lie.
He's just not talking about thephone.
(02:32):
Something else isn't syncing.
The seconds tick, but theydon't move anything.
He pushes through the quiet andfinds a convenience store, half
lit, humming with that awfulbuzz.
Only old fluorescent lightsmake the kind of place that
sells dusty batteries andlottery tickets for people who
(02:54):
have already lost.
He steps inside, grabs a bottleof water, brings it to the
counter.
The man behind the glass isn'treally there, not mentally.
He's watching something on atiny mounted TV static-edged
news coverage A crash downtown,wreckage twisted like torn paper
(03:20):
.
The anchor's voice fills in,muffled but clear enough to
carve still no identification,victim pronounced dead at the
scene, name with help, rootpending next of kin.
And then it cuts sharp like thetape ran out.
He stares at the screen.
(03:40):
A chill falls down his spinefor just a second.
He swears.
He saw himself A chill fallsdown his spine For just a second
.
He swears.
He saw himself the hoodie, thejeans, the bruise underneath the
left eye, a stretcher beinglifted, then gone.
Excuse me, he said softly noanswer.
(04:00):
The man doesn't move, doesn'tblink.
He sets a crumpled bills on thecounter and walks out Outside.
The air feels heavier, notcolder, just more dense, like
fog inside the lung.
He leans against the side ofthe building, unscrews the
(04:20):
bottle and takes a drink.
He doesn't taste.
The night tucked deep into hiscoat, pocket buzzes faintly, not
like a vibration, more like theway a song from your childhood
echoes in your head, familiar,unprovoked.
He reaches in and touches thewrapped shape.
(04:40):
It's warm, it always is.
When things start to shift, helooks up.
A single crow sits on the wireabove the store, lossy,
motionless, watching their eyeslock and for the first time
since he woke up, on that benchit caws, sharp and cutting.
(05:02):
Then it takes off wings slicingthe air gone.
He watches the wire sway, thenturns and walks, doesn't rush,
doesn't look back, and just fora moment, and for a moment.
(05:23):
A security camera would hold onhim.
If this were a film, if thiswere something that could be
witnessed, it would lingerlonger like it didn't want to
follow, like it knew somethinghe didn't something was coming,
or maybe finally something waswaking.
(05:43):
He walks four blocks withoutpurpose, or maybe finally
something was waking.
He walks four blocks withoutpurpose, just letting the
sidewalk decide.
The buildings begin to changeolder cracked brick, rusted
signage, graffiti.
That's more story than spray.
He passes a mural of a facewith no eyes.
(06:03):
Beneath it someone's written infading paint you are here.
He stops, he stares, reads itagain and suddenly he's not so
sure.
He touches his chest.
The heartbeat is steady.
Something inside it isn't Asmall girl runs past chasing a
(06:28):
balloon.
The balloon pops, she doesn'tscream, just stops, stares at
the rubber pieces in her hand,then smiles and runs off again.
He watches her go, everything.
(06:50):
It feels off-center, like theworld is bending just slightly
around him, not enough to break,just enough to lean Back at the
shelter.
He tries to sleep, but the cotfeels unfamiliar, the walls too
narrow.
He turns over.
Then again he thinks of thecrow, the girl, the news footage
, the night.
(07:11):
He thinks of the number on theclock 707, mirror time forward
and backward.
He doesn't know why thatmatters, but it does.
He closes his eyes and in thatmoment, just before sleep, just
before the hum of the worldfades, he hears something that
isn't a sound, it's a shift likea footstep, taken behind the
(07:35):
curtain of the world and in thedark.
He says half out loud, half tono one.
I think I'm starting to believe.
Part 1.
The Beginning of the Fall.
He doesn't remember the lasttime he felt clean.
There's a sourness that clingsto him now, not just the grime
(08:00):
of sleeping on benches or therotted yesterday's sweat soaked
into a collar of his coat.
It's deeper under the skin andthe breath like something inside
is turning.
He hasn't showered in five days.
The shelter has one bathroom.
It's always locked, always full, always a trade.
(08:20):
You don't get in withoutknowing someone giving something
or being dangerous enough thatthey let you in and let you cut.
He's none of those, not anymore.
He waits until night.
When the guards are distracted,he slips in with his coat still
on.
He washes paper towels in coldsink water.
(08:44):
No soap, just desperation, thekind that makes you check the
lock three times and stillflinch at every sound.
There are men in the shelter whodon't blink, men who talk to
themselves in four differentvoices, men who will shank you
for the wrong kind of cough?
He learned this the secondnight.
(09:04):
Who will shank you for thewrong kind of cough?
He learned this the secondnight.
Now he doesn't speak.
He lays on the top bunk in thefar corner, arms wrapped around
his pack like it's holy.
No one touches him there.
No one climbed that high thenight.
Presses cold against his ribsin his coat pocket he doesn't
(09:30):
take it out anymore, not becausehe's afraid of what it is, but
because he's afraid it's nothingat all.
He begs during the day, now, notalways, not loudly, but enough
to keep from starving enough notto fade again like he did
outside the gas station two daysago.
Not always, not loudly, butenough to keep from starving.
(09:53):
Enough not to fade again likehe did outside the gas station
two days ago.
People don't look at him, theylook past him, through him, like
he's a problem someone elseshould solve.
He used to wear a suit.
He used to run to meetings.
He had an assistant named Trishwho brought him his coffee and
knew the way he liked his notesstacked.
I was eating a half-eatenbanana he found on the top of a
trash bin.
(10:13):
That was lunch.
The night doesn't hum anymore.
It just sits there, metal andmute, a symbol of something he
hasn't earned yet.
Maybe he never will.
The dreams come rarely.
When they do, they're notvisions, they're just memories
Her laugh in the hallway, theway she kicked her feet when she
(10:36):
got excited, her eyes beforeshe knew what was coming.
He still has the ring Still inhis coat, still in the box,
still unopened.
He thinks about selling itevery day.
He could eat for weeks, get aroom for a few nights, buy socks
, clean water, real soap, but henever does.
(11:00):
He doesn't know why.
Maybe it's because the onlything he still owns that isn't
covered in regret, or maybe it'sbecause it's the only piece of
her he has left.
Either way, it stays, and sodoes he In this world between
worlds, half buried, half alive,waiting for something to change
(11:23):
, not because he believes itwill, but because the only other
option is disappearingcompletely.
And he's not ready to do thatYet.
Not yet, part 2.
The Cracks Appear, it happensjust after midnight.
There's a scream, short,guttural, followed by the
(11:47):
unmistakable thud of fleshhitting concrete.
He doesn't get up, he doesn'tneed to.
The moment you start showinginterest in someone else's fight
in this place, it becomes yourfight too.
The guy in the cot across fromhim rolls over and pulls his
blanket tighter.
No one's going to intervene notthe guards, not the other men,
(12:08):
not him.
It's a shelter, but it feelsmore like a holding pen and
tonight it stinks of blood andwet socks and the kind of sweat
that doesn't come from effort,it comes from withdrawal.
He keeps his back to the wall,eyes half-lidded, pretending to
sleep.
Pretending has become a kind ofsurvival.
(12:30):
Eventually the scuffle diesdown, footsteps recede, someone
coughs, then silence again, asilence more terrifying than
noise because it means no one'scoming.
He shifts the cot, squeaks thenight, presses against his ribs
like a whisper, but offersnothing else.
(12:51):
He sleeps for maybe two, threehours, waking to the sound of a
man vomiting in a trash bag.
No one reacts.
By morning he's back on thestreet, same coat, same breath,
held in tight, same ache behindhis eyes.
The thought hits him like adart Maybe I'm not supposed to
(13:14):
survive this.
It's the first time he'sadmitted that, not out loud, but
inside somewhere private andhonest.
He tries to find a quiet cornernear an underpass to eat the
stale granola bar he saved fromyesterday.
But even that moment is stolenwhen a man with cracked knuckles
(13:35):
and swollen eyes asks him forit.
He doesn't say no, he doesn'tsay anything, he just hands it
over.
And the man doesn't sayanything.
He just hands it over and theman doesn't thank him, just
walks away and starts chewing.
By noon it's raining, cold,pinpoint rain that stings on
(13:56):
contact.
He doesn't have gloves.
His knuckles are starting tosplit open.
He wraps them in strips of anold shirt and keeps walking.
A woman passes by holding anumbrella and glances at him just
once, long enough to see hisface.
He almost smiles.
She crosses the street.
The city doesn't want him, notanymore.
(14:20):
Maybe it never did.
He stops in front of aconvenience store window and
sees his reflection.
It's gone Pale.
His eyes are like two blackmoons, his jawline gone under
stubble and hunger.
He used to be handsome, used tocare.
Now he looks like a warningsign.
(14:41):
Inside the store a teenagecashier watches him too long.
He steps back from the window,ashamed of nothing and
everything all at once.
Later that afternoon, back atthe shelter, someone overdoses
in the hallway Blue lips,rattling breath.
A crowd gathers, but no onehelps.
(15:02):
One of the guard walks by andjust mutters Narcan's empty,
that's it, that's all.
The man dies 20 minutes later,slumped against a radiator that
never worked.
He doesn't even know the guy'sname, and that's what gets him,
not the death, the normalcy ofit, it should matter more.
(15:28):
He walks five miles that night,no destination, just away From
what he's not sure From himself.
Maybe there's a bus depot nearthe edge of town.
He stands outside of it for anhour, reads every schedule,
studies the map, wonders whatwould happen if he just got on.
(15:49):
One Left Disappeared.
But he doesn't have fare.
Even if he did, he doesn't havea destination, just the doesn't
have fair.
Even if he did, he doesn't havea destination, just the vague
ache of escape and nowhere forit to land.
So he walks back Somewherealong the track.
He pulls out the ring, justholds it.
Then the night, neither speaks.
(16:13):
They don't have to.
He's not a man anymore, not inthe way the world understands.
He's something else, somethingless, something that exists
between two moments, betweenstairs, Between sidewalk cracks.
He's what people try not to see, and that's the hardest part.
(16:37):
He understands why.
Part 3.
The Disappearing.
It starts with silence, not thequiet kind, the kind that wraps
around a man's ribs andsqueezes until the only sound
left is the one inside his head.
He hasn't said a word in twodays, not because he can't, but
(16:59):
because he doesn't want to.
Words require belief thatsomeone's listening, that
something will change, but noone is and nothing does.
He walks the city like a ghost,retracing the steps that no
longer mean anything, past thecoffee shop where he met her,
the one with the crooked greenawning.
(17:20):
It's gone now, burned down sixmonths ago.
He never noticed.
He stands there anyway.
The sky is the color ofconcrete and the cold has teeth.
His fingers are too numb tohold the pen, so the notebook
stays closed For now.
He smells like rot.
(17:40):
Showers are once a week, ifhe's real enough to get a token.
Last time a man held a blade tohis throat for cutting a line
he hadn't, but urin costs morethan bleeding, so he didn't
explain, just stepped back andwaited another day.
That day never came.
There's a church two blockswith a broken bell tower.
(18:04):
He sits behind it in the alleyeating stale crackers from a
food box.
Rats move between the dumpsterslike they belong here, and
maybe they do.
He watches one of them drag ahalf-eaten apple into a drain.
Even they have shelter.
He laughs or tries to.
(18:24):
It comes out like a cough.
His chest hurts lately, asharpness when he breathes deep.
Could be the cold, could besomething worse.
He doesn't ask, it doesn'tmatter.
The shelter's full again.
Fights are up.
The air inside feels thinner,like the building itself is
(18:47):
tired of holding broken men.
He sleeps with one arm acrosshis chest and the night's still
tucked inside the lining of hiscoat.
Doesn't take it out, doesn'tspeak to it, not anymore.
Hasn't made a sound in days.
Maybe it's dead, maybe he is Onthe third night.
(19:08):
He panels outside a pharmacyJust enough for a sandwich.
Maybe socks.
People avoid eye contact likeit's contagious.
A young man drops a dollarwithout stopping.
It, hits the sidewalk andflutters under a trash bin.
He watches it go, doesn't move.
He doesn't chase money anymore.
(19:28):
That version of him is gone.
A woman gives him a half muffin.
He takes a bite out of it.
Still warm, he says thank you.
It's the first word he's saidin two days.
She doesn't hear him.
She's already on the bus.
He sits on the curb and eats itslowly like communion.
(19:52):
Later a man named Curtis triesto sell him fentanyl behind the
laundromat.
It'll help you forget, brotherCurtis says.
He says I'm just trying toremember.
Curtis laughs like he doesn'tunderstand because he doesn't.
And that's the thing.
No one here knows what he lost.
(20:13):
Not really.
They've all lost something,sure, but not her, not
everything, not themselves.
He was someone, he had a future, he had a ring in his pocket
and a bar full of light and aplan.
Now, now he has the ring andthe coat, and the night that
(20:36):
won't speak and a smell thatclings to his skin like guilt.
He turns Curtis down, but hethinks about it and that
terrifies him more than anythingelse.
That night a man dies in hissleep, three cots down.
No one screams, no one cries.
They cover him with a thinblanket and wait for the city
(20:56):
van.
The body stays there untilsunrise.
He doesn't sleep, he doesn'tblink, just watches, because the
only difference between thatman and him is timing, maybe not
even that.
He writes again, not much, justa sentence I don't know who I am
(21:17):
, without suffering Then belowit.
I'm not sure if I ever knew.
He stares at those words forhours, then adds one more Is
this really who I am now?
Doesn't feel like a question,feels like an answer.
Doesn't feel like a question,feels like an answer.
(21:40):
The next morning he skipsbreakfast.
The line was too long and thenew guy handing out bowls
doesn't like the way he looks,said he's seen him before,
called him a double dipper.
He isn't.
But again, doesn't argue, walksfive miles without thinking,
ends up under a bridge.
He doesn't argue, walks fivemiles without thinking, ends up
under a bridge.
He doesn't recognize Graffititags on every column Symbols,
(22:01):
eyes, numbers, messages.
No one wrote for him.
He pulls out the night again.
It's cold, it's heavy, stillsilent, still nothing.
He stares at it, eyes hollow,and puts it to his chest and
closes his eyes.
(22:22):
For a moment he hopes, just fora moment.
But it doesn't hum and hedoesn't cry.
He just puts it back and keepswalking.
By nightfall his feet bledthrough the soles of his shoes.
One lace is gone and the otheris tied, a knot he can't undo
(22:44):
with frozen fingers.
He lies down behind a dumpsterbehind the gas station on 17th.
The concrete is wet, the smellof oil and piss and hopelessness
rises like steam.
He watches the stars betweenthe cracks and the metal above
him.
For the first time in days hethinks about the way she used to
(23:06):
say his name Like it meantsomething, like he meant
something.
He mouths it now, but itdoesn't sound the same.
It sounds like a stranger, andthat's what he is a stranger to
himself, a memory that hasn'tbeen erased but hasn't stopped
(23:29):
being spoken.
He closes his eyes and whispersJust one more day, then falls
asleep and the night doesn't hum, but it stays with him Even now
, even here, even at thedisappearing Part 4.
The Longest Night he hasn'tspoken for seven days now.
(23:51):
Not a word.
Not to the shelter staff, notto the man who offered him half
a sandwich, not to the teenageryelled at him for loitering
outside the gas station.
His throat still worked.
He knows this.
He's just empty.
Silence is easier.
It keeps the dam from breaking.
(24:13):
Tonight the shelter is overcapacity again.
We're stacking bodies in everycorner.
Some men are curled in fetalpositions on the tile floor.
One man keeps muttering inanother language, rocking back
and forth against a column withblood on his shirt.
No one intervenes, no one asksquestions.
(24:34):
He gets a cop by the boiler.
This time it's not warm, justhisses and shudders.
It makes everything smell likerust.
He sits on the edge and unlistshis shoes slowly, like a ritual.
There's a hole in a right onenow.
(24:55):
Wet socks.
He can't remember the last timehe felt dry or warm or wanted.
The night is still with himinside the coat, always near.
He hasn't taken it out all day,Not because he forgot, because
he's afraid it won't respondanymore.
It hasn't made a sound sincethe bridge Outside it started to
snow, the kind that doesn'tstick, just dissolves.
(25:18):
On contact, like everything elsein his life lately.
He stands in the shadows of analleyway and watches the street
light, halo and white, eachflake, a silent declaration
you're not supposed to be hereanymore.
He checks his phone no newmessages.
The screen is cracked.
Has been for months but itstill works enough to remind him
(25:40):
he's not alone.
He scrolls through his contactsjust to see names, not to call,
just to remember what nameslook like.
Her name is still there.
He taps it doesn't work.
There's no reception.
He walks for hours, nodestination, just an ache that
(26:08):
won't settle like his soul ispacing inside his skin.
He ends up behind the trainyard where the gravel cuts
through abandoned warehouses.
There's no wind there, nopeople, just the sound of metal
cooling and old tracks restingbeneath time.
He sits, pulls the box out withthe ring in it, not the night.
(26:29):
The ring Still in its box,still pristine, won't open it.
He was going to propose thatnight at their favorite dive bar
cheap beer, neon lights, thejukebox she always played Snatch
on and it all planned Speech,music, the look in her eyes when
(26:50):
he opened the box.
But she never showed, she nevermade it.
Car accident she never showed.
She never made it.
Car accident, driver neverstopped.
She died with his name in herphone and him in her future and
he hasn't known what to do withthat.
Since he holds the box.
(27:15):
He could sell it easily.
He would buy him weeks of food,maybe a motel, maybe a bus fare
out of this whole damn city.
But he doesn't, never does.
He puts the box back in hiscoat, leans his head against the
wall behind him and closes hiseyes.
He doesn't cry.
(27:36):
That stopped long ago.
Now he's just empty.
Back at the shelter a fightbreaks out again.
Two men over a blanket.
One has a sharpened toothbrush,the other one grabs a chair.
The staff doesn't come,everyone just watches.
(27:56):
Chair the staff doesn't come,everyone just watches.
He doesn't move, doesn't blink,rips the night through his coat
and waits for the sound to passLike thunder, like grief.
The next morning a man namedJack, from Two Cots Down,
doesn't wake up Overdose Samestory, different name, no
ceremony, just a sheet pulledover the head, silent nod.
(28:20):
Someone takes his shoes.
He doesn't know Jack, theynever spoke, but the sight makes
something shift in his stomach,not fear, not sadness, jealousy
.
Jack says done, the fight isover for him.
He still has to get up, stillhas to walk, still has to beg,
(28:44):
still has to pretend tomorrow isa real thing.
He finds a new corner to sit in, not to beg.
He can't anymore.
Just to exist, to take up space, to feel like he's a part of
something, even if thatsomething is just a cracked
sidewalk under a billboard for aluxury condo.
He watches people pass, alltypes, clean, fed, brushed.
(29:07):
One woman in a business quotemakes eye contact real, eye
contact, not just a glance.
She smiles and he feels it likea blade because it's the first
kindness he's received in weeksand it breaks him more than the
cruelty ever did.
He looks away ashamed toreceive something human, ashamed
(29:31):
to remember what being humaneven felt like.
Later he writes again, sits onthe curb behind a liquor store
and scribbles in the notebook,with fingers too stiff to hold
the pen, right New lines.
The city is a god and I'm itsunwanted prayer.
This isn't living, it's waiting.
I miss the man I used topretend to be.
(29:53):
He tears the page out, he foldsit, puts it in the pocket, same
pocket as the ring.
Everything valuable grows therenow the night, the ring, the
words, the parts of him.
He refuses to give up, even ifno one's asking for them.
(30:15):
That night he showers for thefirst time in twelve days.
The water is cold, the skullreeks of mildew and mold and
soap that's been left to rot,but it runs.
For a moment he feels almosthuman.
He doesn't have a towel.
He dries with his coat, watchesa reflection in the cracked
(30:37):
mirror above the sink.
He doesn't recognize the towel.
He dries with his coat, watchesa reflection in the cracked
mirror above the sink.
He doesn't recognize the manstaring back.
But there's something in hiseyes, not hope, not strength,
just presence and a smallflicker of still there.
And that.
That's enough for now.
(30:59):
Part 5.
The Drift, the cold, doesn'tbother Mike at used to.
It's not that he's numb to it,it's just that everything feels
the same now Cold, damp, distant.
He walks with his hands in hiscoat pockets, shoulders hunched
against the wind.
That's not even that strong,but it feels strong Because
(31:25):
everything he does now he hasn'teaten since yesterday.
Maybe it was the day before hestopped counting.
Food's just another thing toforget about, like sleep, like
dates Like himself.
Food's just another thing toforget about, like sleep, like
dates, like himself.
He passes a man handing out warmsoup in front of a church.
He doesn't stop, doesn't ask,just nods.
(31:46):
The man doesn't nod back, hejust down alleys.
He's never walked before, butthat still feels familiar.
Same smell of grease and ash.
Same graffiti tags on rusteddumpsters.
Same huddled figures pretendingto be asleep.
One of them stirs eyes, meet,then nothing.
Two ghosts passing in oppositedirections.
(32:10):
He finds a bench in a park thatno one uses.
The swing set creaks in thewind.
A beer can rolls across thegrass.
He sits down slowly, like he'safraid the metal might reject
him, but it doesn't.
Nothing does that would requireit to notice him In his coat
pocket.
The night is silent, heavy, thehum is gone.
(32:33):
A man with a limp walks by nods, asks if he needs anything.
You good, he says.
He lies.
He says yes.
The man keeps walking Acrossthe street a woman's walking her
dog Laughing into her phone.
She wears the same brand of coat.
(32:54):
His girlfriend used to lovethat brand.
That felt expensive but wasn'tClass and disguise she used to
call it.
He watches until she rounds thecorner.
Then he looks away, quick,sharp, like her memory just
slapped him.
He doesn't want to cry, hedoesn't let himself, but
(33:16):
something folds in his chest.
He opens his notebook, blankpage, writes a word drifting and
underlines it hard.
The knight doesn't respond.
He leans back, closes his eyes,tries to remember the last time
someone said his name Can't,not once, not since.
(33:37):
For the first time he wondersif it matters.
Part 6.
The Hollow Hour.
There's a new smell in theshelter tonight, not the usual
cocktail of mildew and bleach.
This one's darker, metallic,like rusted coins and something
(34:01):
faintly sour underneath.
He doesn't ask, no one does.
He learns fast that questionscost too much in places like
this.
He lies in his bunk, bottom row,second from the door.
The mattress sags in the center.
It smells like piss, no matterhow many times he flips it.
He used to cover it with hiscoat.
(34:23):
Now he wears the coat and justaccepts the stink.
That's the evolution.
He hasn't spoken to anyone allday no greetings, no eye contact
, no nods of recognition.
The world doesn't speak to himand now, finally, he stopped
trying to speak to it.
(34:44):
He gets up around midnight anduses the bathroom.
It's a fluorescent hell,fuzzing lights and rust-stained
sinks.
A man with blood on hisknuckles washes silently next to
him.
Neither says a word.
That's the language now Silence, through glassy stairs and
careful distance.
He wipes his face, looks intothe mirror, doesn't recognize
(35:05):
what's staring back.
He's thinner, taller, jawtighter.
There's a scratch under hiseyes he doesn't remember Getting
.
When did that happen?
How many nights has he slepthere?
Now Four Ten.
He looks down.
The night's still in his pocket, still cold, still silent.
(35:26):
He holds it in the palm of hishand as he walks back to his
bunk.
Looks like nothing in thislight.
It looks just like a piece ofmetal, like a thing.
He lies back down and places iton his chest, closes his eyes
and breathes.
It doesn't hum For a long time.
He just listens to the shiftingbunks, to the murmured
(35:50):
nightmares of the man next tohim, to the click of a lighter.
A few beds down, someone'ssmoking something.
They shouldn't.
No one cares.
He pulls the blanket tighter Atsome point someone screams, a
real scream, blood thick andanimal-like.
He doesn't flinch.
(36:10):
The scream cuts out fast.
No footstep, no fight.
No footstep, no fight.
Just one sudden moment and thengone.
Few men stir.
One curses One, says a prayer.
He turns over, closes his eyes.
Again the night is gone.
He bolts upright, handscrambling across the mattress,
(36:33):
checks the pocket empty.
His heart lurches, panic,swells like a flood.
He tears off the blanket, dropsto the floor there near the
bunk leg, just out of reach.
He grabs it, holds it tight,breath shaking, chest heaving.
Why did that feel like dying?
He lies back down, pressing thenight to his chest like it
(36:57):
might melt through him.
He can't lose it.
He doesn't know why, but hejust can't.
The thought hits him like awhisper in his skull.
What if this is all you haveleft?
He doesn't sleep, stares at theceiling.
Over and over again, the samethree words spin in his head I
(37:21):
am nothing In the morning.
He walks, doesn't eat, doesn'tspeak, just walks.
A woman offers him changeoutside a gas station.
He nods.
He thanks her.
She pulls her kid a littlecloser.
Here's the kid whisper.
Why does he look like that?
The woman shushes him.
(37:43):
He walks faster, near anunderpass he finds a cement
column covered in graffiti, mostof it's names.
One word stands out, gone,written in huge black letters.
Someone tried to cross it outin red, but it still bleeds
through.
He takes out his notebook,writes the word circles.
(38:04):
It Then adds something beneathno one says your name, do you
still exist?
The night hums just once, soft,low, almost like a sigh.
He grips it again.
But it's cold, no heat, nowarmth, just wait.
He keeps walking until he'stired, so tired he can't think,
(38:28):
finds a bench near the trainstation, sits, watches people
with places to be pass bywithout seeing him, looks at his
hands Whose are these?
He mutters.
He's not sure if he meant tosay it out loud, but he did and
no one answers.
That night he sits in theshelter bathroom again, wipes
(38:51):
the mirror clean, looks into hisown eyes, looks into his own
eyes.
I don't know who I am anymore,he whispers.
For the first time it soundstrue.
(39:11):
All right, let's get into themonologue.
This is the hour no one talksabout.
Not rock bottom, not theawakening, not even the collapse
.
This is the hollow hour, thehour where a man floats between
who he was and who he'll neverbe again the place where the
world doesn't hurt because itdoesn't feel like anything at
all.
In this episode, we watch theman go silent.
(39:33):
He's not numb, that would implythat he felt too much.
This is something way worse.
He's becoming a shadow in themargin of his own life.
He walks through the city likea ghost, with a pulse.
The shelter isn't a refuge,it's a holding pen, and every
night he lies on that rankmattress with a war raging in
(39:57):
his head between two versions ofhimself One that remembers and
one that just wants to forget.
The night, once mysterious andhumming with potential, is now
cold, indifferent, a silentpassenger.
And that's the metaphor, isn'tit?
We all carry something thatused to mean everything, until
(40:18):
the silence gets louder than thesignal, until we start asking
if we've invented the meaningjust to survive.
This is the part of the journey.
I should say this is the partof the journey, what most men
skip when they tell theircomeback story.
They talk about thebreakthrough, the business
launch, the power, but theydon't talk about the days they
(40:39):
didn't shower, the nights theystared at the ceiling for seven
hours straight, the silent panicof losing a small object you've
assigned meaning to, becauseit's the only thing that felt
like it knew your name.
They don't talk about the daythe world stopped seeing you.
And this?
He doesn't grow, he doesn'tevolve, he sinks.
(41:02):
And that is sacred, Because noman ever truly climbs until he's
knelt before his own ruin andhas refused to call it permanent
.
What you might have missed ishow the world responds to his
silence.
The woman who pulls her childaway, the graffiti word that
says gone, the knight hummingonce and then dying again.
(41:25):
These are not just poeticdetails, they're clues.
This isn't the story of a manfinding power.
This is the story of a manrealizing he has nothing,
nothing left to lose.
And in that realization, thathaunting moment of nothing left
(41:45):
is what begins to strip thelesser man out of him.
He doesn't know it yet, butthis decay is sacred.
You might be in it right now.
You might be the man who hasn'tcried in weeks because the
tears dried up before they couldfall.
The man who walks into hishouse and doesn't feel like it
belongs to him.
The man who keeps checking thetime and doesn't know why.
(42:06):
And if that's you, don't rush,don't force the rise, sit in the
hollow.
It has something to say,because the only thing more
dangerous than a man who has itall is a man who's lost it all
and didn't die.
You're still here, that'senough and that's more than most
(42:32):
.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto our reflection.
Question Number one what inyour life has stopped you from
feeling but you still carry?
Reflection two where are youpretending to be fine, just so
others won't look too closely?
What was the last moment youtruly felt invisible?
(42:52):
Number four is there an objectin your life that holds meaning
no one else knows about?
That's a big question.
And number five what would itlook like to embrace the silence
instead of fighting it?
That's another really bigquestion.
So this is a heavy one, guys.
(43:14):
This is going to be a heavyseries, so I just want to let
you guys know that.
But I promise you his ascensionis going to be amazing.
So, anyways, the support wejust get with this show, it just
I can't tell you how much itmeans to me.
All your guys' questions, yourcomments, it just really means a
(43:36):
lot to me and your support isjust amazing.
So thank you so much for that.
Now, if you're someone who wantsto, you know, support the show.
Best way to do it is sharethose with your friends, review
it on on whatever platformyou're listening on, but sharing
it is.
Sharing is caring, as they sayright.
Um, now, if you want to get ahold of me, you want to talk
(43:57):
about this series, this episode,or maybe you're going through
something like this, that's whatI'm here for.
I'm here to help you.
So there's a couple of differentways you can do it.
First way is on the descriptionof this podcast.
There's a function that sayslet's chat.
Once you click on that, you andI can have a conversation about
this series, this episode, the14 other series that are out
there and the 260 plus episodesthat I have on this podcast.
(44:19):
Second way is going to bethrough my email.
My email isanthonyatgentsjourneycom.
And then, last but not least,you can always go to my
Instagram.
My Instagram is mygentsjourney.
Please, please, please, feelfree to reach out to me there as
well.
So again, guys, thank you somuch for your support today and,
(44:40):
as always, remember this youcreate your reality.
Take care Bye.
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast.
My name is Anthony, your host,and today we are in episode 3 of
Grandeur.
It's called the Belief, solet's go ahead and let's get
into the cold opening.
(00:20):
It isn't raining anymore, butthe sidewalk still glistens like
it remembers, as if the citydoesn't know how to dry off, or
maybe it doesn't want to.
He walks slower now, notbecause he's tired, but because
(00:40):
the world feels hesitant, likeit's waiting for him to catch up
, like it knows something hedoesn't.
The early morning haze clingsto the buildings, making
everything look like an echo.
Signs flicker too softly, carsroll by too quietly, even the
(01:03):
pigeons seem unsure if theyshould scatter or stare.
A cyclist whips past him toofast, too close.
He doesn't look back.
Just a gust of wind and thesound of tires against wet
concrete.
A couple on the corner laughstoo loud for the hour, like
they're trying to prove thatthey still feel something.
(01:26):
A little girl drops her stuffedrabbit on the crosswalk.
He bends to grab it andoutstretched to return it, but
her mother yanks her forwardwithout a glance.
He stays there for a momentjust holding it, soft, worn, one
ear matted, the other floppedsideways.
(01:47):
It smells faintly like cinnamonand sidewalk dust.
He kneels besides the bench,places the rabbit down gently,
next to a newspaper that's threedays old and a cup of coffee
that's never been claimed.
The page flutters just once andthen stillness.
He pulls out his phone to checkthe time no service still.
(02:11):
The clock blinks normallythough 707.
That number again.
He stares at it, the kind ofstare that tries to break
something open.
It's broken, he mutters, but itfeels like a lie.
He's just not talking about thephone.
(02:32):
Something else isn't syncing.
The seconds tick, but theydon't move anything.
He pushes through the quiet andfinds a convenience store, half
lit, humming with that awfulbuzz.
Only old fluorescent lightsmake the kind of place that
sells dusty batteries andlottery tickets for people who
(02:54):
have already lost.
He steps inside, grabs a bottleof water, brings it to the
counter.
The man behind the glass isn'treally there, not mentally.
He's watching something on atiny mounted TV static-edged
news coverage A crash downtown,wreckage twisted like torn paper
(03:20):
.
The anchor's voice fills in,muffled but clear enough to
carve still no identification,victim pronounced dead at the
scene, name with help, rootpending next of kin.
And then it cuts sharp like thetape ran out.
He stares at the screen.
(03:40):
A chill falls down his spinefor just a second.
He swears.
He saw himself A chill fallsdown his spine For just a second
.
He swears.
He saw himself the hoodie, thejeans, the bruise underneath the
left eye, a stretcher beinglifted, then gone.
Excuse me, he said softly noanswer.
(04:00):
The man doesn't move, doesn'tblink.
He sets a crumpled bills on thecounter and walks out Outside.
The air feels heavier, notcolder, just more dense, like
fog inside the lung.
He leans against the side ofthe building, unscrews the
(04:20):
bottle and takes a drink.
He doesn't taste.
The night tucked deep into hiscoat, pocket buzzes faintly, not
like a vibration, more like theway a song from your childhood
echoes in your head, familiar,unprovoked.
He reaches in and touches thewrapped shape.
(04:40):
It's warm, it always is.
When things start to shift, helooks up.
A single crow sits on the wireabove the store, lossy,
motionless, watching their eyeslock and for the first time
since he woke up, on that benchit caws, sharp and cutting.
(05:02):
Then it takes off wings slicingthe air gone.
He watches the wire sway, thenturns and walks, doesn't rush,
doesn't look back, and just fora moment, and for a moment.
(05:23):
A security camera would hold onhim.
If this were a film, if thiswere something that could be
witnessed, it would lingerlonger like it didn't want to
follow, like it knew somethinghe didn't something was coming,
or maybe finally something waswaking.
(05:43):
He walks four blocks withoutpurpose, or maybe finally
something was waking.
He walks four blocks withoutpurpose, just letting the
sidewalk decide.
The buildings begin to changeolder cracked brick, rusted
signage, graffiti.
That's more story than spray.
He passes a mural of a facewith no eyes.
(06:03):
Beneath it someone's written infading paint you are here.
He stops, he stares, reads itagain and suddenly he's not so
sure.
He touches his chest.
The heartbeat is steady.
Something inside it isn't Asmall girl runs past chasing a
(06:28):
balloon.
The balloon pops, she doesn'tscream, just stops, stares at
the rubber pieces in her hand,then smiles and runs off again.
He watches her go, everything.
(06:50):
It feels off-center, like theworld is bending just slightly
around him, not enough to break,just enough to lean Back at the
shelter.
He tries to sleep, but the cotfeels unfamiliar, the walls too
narrow.
He turns over.
Then again he thinks of thecrow, the girl, the news footage
, the night.
(07:11):
He thinks of the number on theclock 707, mirror time forward
and backward.
He doesn't know why thatmatters, but it does.
He closes his eyes and in thatmoment, just before sleep, just
before the hum of the worldfades, he hears something that
isn't a sound, it's a shift likea footstep, taken behind the
(07:35):
curtain of the world and in thedark.
He says half out loud, half tono one.
I think I'm starting to believe.
Part 1.
The Beginning of the Fall.
He doesn't remember the lasttime he felt clean.
There's a sourness that clingsto him now, not just the grime
(08:00):
of sleeping on benches or therotted yesterday's sweat soaked
into a collar of his coat.
It's deeper under the skin andthe breath like something inside
is turning.
He hasn't showered in five days.
The shelter has one bathroom.
It's always locked, always full, always a trade.
(08:20):
You don't get in withoutknowing someone giving something
or being dangerous enough thatthey let you in and let you cut.
He's none of those, not anymore.
He waits until night.
When the guards are distracted,he slips in with his coat still
on.
He washes paper towels in coldsink water.
(08:44):
No soap, just desperation, thekind that makes you check the
lock three times and stillflinch at every sound.
There are men in the shelter whodon't blink, men who talk to
themselves in four differentvoices, men who will shank you
for the wrong kind of cough?
He learned this the secondnight.
(09:04):
Who will shank you for thewrong kind of cough?
He learned this the secondnight.
Now he doesn't speak.
He lays on the top bunk in thefar corner, arms wrapped around
his pack like it's holy.
No one touches him there.
No one climbed that high thenight.
Presses cold against his ribsin his coat pocket he doesn't
(09:30):
take it out anymore, not becausehe's afraid of what it is, but
because he's afraid it's nothingat all.
He begs during the day, now, notalways, not loudly, but enough
to keep from starving enough notto fade again like he did
outside the gas station two daysago.
Not always, not loudly, butenough to keep from starving.
(09:53):
Enough not to fade again likehe did outside the gas station
two days ago.
People don't look at him, theylook past him, through him, like
he's a problem someone elseshould solve.
He used to wear a suit.
He used to run to meetings.
He had an assistant named Trishwho brought him his coffee and
knew the way he liked his notesstacked.
I was eating a half-eatenbanana he found on the top of a
trash bin.
(10:13):
That was lunch.
The night doesn't hum anymore.
It just sits there, metal andmute, a symbol of something he
hasn't earned yet.
Maybe he never will.
The dreams come rarely.
When they do, they're notvisions, they're just memories
Her laugh in the hallway, theway she kicked her feet when she
(10:36):
got excited, her eyes beforeshe knew what was coming.
He still has the ring Still inhis coat, still in the box,
still unopened.
He thinks about selling itevery day.
He could eat for weeks, get aroom for a few nights, buy socks
, clean water, real soap, but henever does.
(11:00):
He doesn't know why.
Maybe it's because the onlything he still owns that isn't
covered in regret, or maybe it'sbecause it's the only piece of
her he has left.
Either way, it stays, and sodoes he In this world between
worlds, half buried, half alive,waiting for something to change
(11:23):
, not because he believes itwill, but because the only other
option is disappearingcompletely.
And he's not ready to do thatYet.
Not yet, part 2.
The Cracks Appear, it happensjust after midnight.
There's a scream, short,guttural, followed by the
(11:47):
unmistakable thud of fleshhitting concrete.
He doesn't get up, he doesn'tneed to.
The moment you start showinginterest in someone else's fight
in this place, it becomes yourfight too.
The guy in the cot across fromhim rolls over and pulls his
blanket tighter.
No one's going to intervene notthe guards, not the other men,
(12:08):
not him.
It's a shelter, but it feelsmore like a holding pen and
tonight it stinks of blood andwet socks and the kind of sweat
that doesn't come from effort,it comes from withdrawal.
He keeps his back to the wall,eyes half-lidded, pretending to
sleep.
Pretending has become a kind ofsurvival.
(12:30):
Eventually the scuffle diesdown, footsteps recede, someone
coughs, then silence again, asilence more terrifying than
noise because it means no one'scoming.
He shifts the cot, squeaks thenight, presses against his ribs
like a whisper, but offersnothing else.
(12:51):
He sleeps for maybe two, threehours, waking to the sound of a
man vomiting in a trash bag.
No one reacts.
By morning he's back on thestreet, same coat, same breath,
held in tight, same ache behindhis eyes.
The thought hits him like adart Maybe I'm not supposed to
(13:14):
survive this.
It's the first time he'sadmitted that, not out loud, but
inside somewhere private andhonest.
He tries to find a quiet cornernear an underpass to eat the
stale granola bar he saved fromyesterday.
But even that moment is stolenwhen a man with cracked knuckles
(13:35):
and swollen eyes asks him forit.
He doesn't say no, he doesn'tsay anything, he just hands it
over.
And the man doesn't sayanything.
He just hands it over and theman doesn't thank him, just
walks away and starts chewing.
By noon it's raining, cold,pinpoint rain that stings on
(13:56):
contact.
He doesn't have gloves.
His knuckles are starting tosplit open.
He wraps them in strips of anold shirt and keeps walking.
A woman passes by holding anumbrella and glances at him just
once, long enough to see hisface.
He almost smiles.
She crosses the street.
The city doesn't want him, notanymore.
(14:20):
Maybe it never did.
He stops in front of aconvenience store window and
sees his reflection.
It's gone Pale.
His eyes are like two blackmoons, his jawline gone under
stubble and hunger.
He used to be handsome, used tocare.
Now he looks like a warningsign.
(14:41):
Inside the store a teenagecashier watches him too long.
He steps back from the window,ashamed of nothing and
everything all at once.
Later that afternoon, back atthe shelter, someone overdoses
in the hallway Blue lips,rattling breath.
A crowd gathers, but no onehelps.
(15:02):
One of the guard walks by andjust mutters Narcan's empty,
that's it, that's all.
The man dies 20 minutes later,slumped against a radiator that
never worked.
He doesn't even know the guy'sname, and that's what gets him,
not the death, the normalcy ofit, it should matter more.
(15:28):
He walks five miles that night,no destination, just away From
what he's not sure From himself.
Maybe there's a bus depot nearthe edge of town.
He stands outside of it for anhour, reads every schedule,
studies the map, wonders whatwould happen if he just got on.
(15:49):
One Left Disappeared.
But he doesn't have fare.
Even if he did, he doesn't havea destination, just the doesn't
have fair.
Even if he did, he doesn't havea destination, just the vague
ache of escape and nowhere forit to land.
So he walks back Somewherealong the track.
He pulls out the ring, justholds it.
Then the night, neither speaks.
(16:13):
They don't have to.
He's not a man anymore, not inthe way the world understands.
He's something else, somethingless, something that exists
between two moments, betweenstairs, Between sidewalk cracks.
He's what people try not to see, and that's the hardest part.
(16:37):
He understands why.
Part 3.
The Disappearing.
It starts with silence, not thequiet kind, the kind that wraps
around a man's ribs andsqueezes until the only sound
left is the one inside his head.
He hasn't said a word in twodays, not because he can't, but
(16:59):
because he doesn't want to.
Words require belief thatsomeone's listening, that
something will change, but noone is and nothing does.
He walks the city like a ghost,retracing the steps that no
longer mean anything, past thecoffee shop where he met her,
the one with the crooked greenawning.
(17:20):
It's gone now, burned down sixmonths ago.
He never noticed.
He stands there anyway.
The sky is the color ofconcrete and the cold has teeth.
His fingers are too numb tohold the pen, so the notebook
stays closed For now.
He smells like rot.
(17:40):
Showers are once a week, ifhe's real enough to get a token.
Last time a man held a blade tohis throat for cutting a line
he hadn't, but urin costs morethan bleeding, so he didn't
explain, just stepped back andwaited another day.
That day never came.
There's a church two blockswith a broken bell tower.
(18:04):
He sits behind it in the alleyeating stale crackers from a
food box.
Rats move between the dumpsterslike they belong here, and
maybe they do.
He watches one of them drag ahalf-eaten apple into a drain.
Even they have shelter.
He laughs or tries to.
(18:24):
It comes out like a cough.
His chest hurts lately, asharpness when he breathes deep.
Could be the cold, could besomething worse.
He doesn't ask, it doesn'tmatter.
The shelter's full again.
Fights are up.
The air inside feels thinner,like the building itself is
(18:47):
tired of holding broken men.
He sleeps with one arm acrosshis chest and the night's still
tucked inside the lining of hiscoat.
Doesn't take it out, doesn'tspeak to it, not anymore.
Hasn't made a sound in days.
Maybe it's dead, maybe he is Onthe third night.
(19:08):
He panels outside a pharmacyJust enough for a sandwich.
Maybe socks.
People avoid eye contact likeit's contagious.
A young man drops a dollarwithout stopping.
It, hits the sidewalk andflutters under a trash bin.
He watches it go, doesn't move.
He doesn't chase money anymore.
(19:28):
That version of him is gone.
A woman gives him a half muffin.
He takes a bite out of it.
Still warm, he says thank you.
It's the first word he's saidin two days.
She doesn't hear him.
She's already on the bus.
He sits on the curb and eats itslowly like communion.
(19:52):
Later a man named Curtis triesto sell him fentanyl behind the
laundromat.
It'll help you forget, brotherCurtis says.
He says I'm just trying toremember.
Curtis laughs like he doesn'tunderstand because he doesn't.
And that's the thing.
No one here knows what he lost.
(20:13):
Not really.
They've all lost something,sure, but not her, not
everything, not themselves.
He was someone, he had a future, he had a ring in his pocket
and a bar full of light and aplan.
Now, now he has the ring andthe coat, and the night that
(20:36):
won't speak and a smell thatclings to his skin like guilt.
He turns Curtis down, but hethinks about it and that
terrifies him more than anythingelse.
That night a man dies in hissleep, three cots down.
No one screams, no one cries.
They cover him with a thinblanket and wait for the city
(20:56):
van.
The body stays there untilsunrise.
He doesn't sleep, he doesn'tblink, just watches, because the
only difference between thatman and him is timing, maybe not
even that.
He writes again, not much, justa sentence I don't know who I am
(21:17):
, without suffering Then belowit.
I'm not sure if I ever knew.
He stares at those words forhours, then adds one more Is
this really who I am now?
Doesn't feel like a question,feels like an answer.
Doesn't feel like a question,feels like an answer.
(21:40):
The next morning he skipsbreakfast.
The line was too long and thenew guy handing out bowls
doesn't like the way he looks,said he's seen him before,
called him a double dipper.
He isn't.
But again, doesn't argue, walksfive miles without thinking,
ends up under a bridge.
He doesn't argue, walks fivemiles without thinking, ends up
under a bridge.
He doesn't recognize Graffititags on every column Symbols,
(22:01):
eyes, numbers, messages.
No one wrote for him.
He pulls out the night again.
It's cold, it's heavy, stillsilent, still nothing.
He stares at it, eyes hollow,and puts it to his chest and
closes his eyes.
(22:22):
For a moment he hopes, just fora moment.
But it doesn't hum and hedoesn't cry.
He just puts it back and keepswalking.
By nightfall his feet bledthrough the soles of his shoes.
One lace is gone and the otheris tied, a knot he can't undo
(22:44):
with frozen fingers.
He lies down behind a dumpsterbehind the gas station on 17th.
The concrete is wet, the smellof oil and piss and hopelessness
rises like steam.
He watches the stars betweenthe cracks and the metal above
him.
For the first time in days hethinks about the way she used to
(23:06):
say his name Like it meantsomething, like he meant
something.
He mouths it now, but itdoesn't sound the same.
It sounds like a stranger, andthat's what he is a stranger to
himself, a memory that hasn'tbeen erased but hasn't stopped
(23:29):
being spoken.
He closes his eyes and whispersJust one more day, then falls
asleep and the night doesn't hum, but it stays with him Even now
, even here, even at thedisappearing Part 4.
The Longest Night he hasn'tspoken for seven days now.
(23:51):
Not a word.
Not to the shelter staff, notto the man who offered him half
a sandwich, not to the teenageryelled at him for loitering
outside the gas station.
His throat still worked.
He knows this.
He's just empty.
Silence is easier.
It keeps the dam from breaking.
(24:13):
Tonight the shelter is overcapacity again.
We're stacking bodies in everycorner.
Some men are curled in fetalpositions on the tile floor.
One man keeps muttering inanother language, rocking back
and forth against a column withblood on his shirt.
No one intervenes, no one asksquestions.
(24:34):
He gets a cop by the boiler.
This time it's not warm, justhisses and shudders.
It makes everything smell likerust.
He sits on the edge and unlistshis shoes slowly, like a ritual.
There's a hole in a right onenow.
(24:55):
Wet socks.
He can't remember the last timehe felt dry or warm or wanted.
The night is still with himinside the coat, always near.
He hasn't taken it out all day,Not because he forgot, because
he's afraid it won't respondanymore.
It hasn't made a sound sincethe bridge Outside it started to
snow, the kind that doesn'tstick, just dissolves.
(25:18):
On contact, like everything elsein his life lately.
He stands in the shadows of analleyway and watches the street
light, halo and white, eachflake, a silent declaration
you're not supposed to be hereanymore.
He checks his phone no newmessages.
The screen is cracked.
Has been for months but itstill works enough to remind him
(25:40):
he's not alone.
He scrolls through his contactsjust to see names, not to call,
just to remember what nameslook like.
Her name is still there.
He taps it doesn't work.
There's no reception.
He walks for hours, nodestination, just an ache that
(26:08):
won't settle like his soul ispacing inside his skin.
He ends up behind the trainyard where the gravel cuts
through abandoned warehouses.
There's no wind there, nopeople, just the sound of metal
cooling and old tracks restingbeneath time.
He sits, pulls the box out withthe ring in it, not the night.
(26:29):
The ring Still in its box,still pristine, won't open it.
He was going to propose thatnight at their favorite dive bar
cheap beer, neon lights, thejukebox she always played Snatch
on and it all planned Speech,music, the look in her eyes when
(26:50):
he opened the box.
But she never showed, she nevermade it.
Car accident she never showed.
She never made it.
Car accident, driver neverstopped.
She died with his name in herphone and him in her future and
he hasn't known what to do withthat.
Since he holds the box.
(27:15):
He could sell it easily.
He would buy him weeks of food,maybe a motel, maybe a bus fare
out of this whole damn city.
But he doesn't, never does.
He puts the box back in hiscoat, leans his head against the
wall behind him and closes hiseyes.
He doesn't cry.
(27:36):
That stopped long ago.
Now he's just empty.
Back at the shelter a fightbreaks out again.
Two men over a blanket.
One has a sharpened toothbrush,the other one grabs a chair.
The staff doesn't come,everyone just watches.
(27:56):
Chair the staff doesn't come,everyone just watches.
He doesn't move, doesn't blink,rips the night through his coat
and waits for the sound to passLike thunder, like grief.
The next morning a man namedJack, from Two Cots Down,
doesn't wake up Overdose Samestory, different name, no
ceremony, just a sheet pulledover the head, silent nod.
(28:20):
Someone takes his shoes.
He doesn't know Jack, theynever spoke, but the sight makes
something shift in his stomach,not fear, not sadness, jealousy
.
Jack says done, the fight isover for him.
He still has to get up, stillhas to walk, still has to beg,
(28:44):
still has to pretend tomorrow isa real thing.
He finds a new corner to sit in, not to beg.
He can't anymore.
Just to exist, to take up space, to feel like he's a part of
something, even if thatsomething is just a cracked
sidewalk under a billboard for aluxury condo.
He watches people pass, alltypes, clean, fed, brushed.
(29:07):
One woman in a business quotemakes eye contact real, eye
contact, not just a glance.
She smiles and he feels it likea blade because it's the first
kindness he's received in weeksand it breaks him more than the
cruelty ever did.
He looks away ashamed toreceive something human, ashamed
(29:31):
to remember what being humaneven felt like.
Later he writes again, sits onthe curb behind a liquor store
and scribbles in the notebook,with fingers too stiff to hold
the pen, right New lines.
The city is a god and I'm itsunwanted prayer.
This isn't living, it's waiting.
I miss the man I used topretend to be.
(29:53):
He tears the page out, he foldsit, puts it in the pocket, same
pocket as the ring.
Everything valuable grows therenow the night, the ring, the
words, the parts of him.
He refuses to give up, even ifno one's asking for them.
(30:15):
That night he showers for thefirst time in twelve days.
The water is cold, the skullreeks of mildew and mold and
soap that's been left to rot,but it runs.
For a moment he feels almosthuman.
He doesn't have a towel.
He dries with his coat, watchesa reflection in the cracked
(30:37):
mirror above the sink.
He doesn't recognize the towel.
He dries with his coat, watchesa reflection in the cracked
mirror above the sink.
He doesn't recognize the manstaring back.
But there's something in hiseyes, not hope, not strength,
just presence and a smallflicker of still there.
And that.
That's enough for now.
(30:59):
Part 5.
The Drift, the cold, doesn'tbother Mike at used to.
It's not that he's numb to it,it's just that everything feels
the same now Cold, damp, distant.
He walks with his hands in hiscoat pockets, shoulders hunched
against the wind.
That's not even that strong,but it feels strong Because
(31:25):
everything he does now he hasn'teaten since yesterday.
Maybe it was the day before hestopped counting.
Food's just another thing toforget about, like sleep, like
dates Like himself.
Food's just another thing toforget about, like sleep, like
dates, like himself.
He passes a man handing out warmsoup in front of a church.
He doesn't stop, doesn't ask,just nods.
(31:46):
The man doesn't nod back, hejust down alleys.
He's never walked before, butthat still feels familiar.
Same smell of grease and ash.
Same graffiti tags on rusteddumpsters.
Same huddled figures pretendingto be asleep.
One of them stirs eyes, meet,then nothing.
Two ghosts passing in oppositedirections.
(32:10):
He finds a bench in a park thatno one uses.
The swing set creaks in thewind.
A beer can rolls across thegrass.
He sits down slowly, like he'safraid the metal might reject
him, but it doesn't.
Nothing does that would requireit to notice him In his coat
pocket.
The night is silent, heavy, thehum is gone.
(32:33):
A man with a limp walks by nods, asks if he needs anything.
You good, he says.
He lies.
He says yes.
The man keeps walking Acrossthe street a woman's walking her
dog Laughing into her phone.
She wears the same brand of coat.
(32:54):
His girlfriend used to lovethat brand.
That felt expensive but wasn'tClass and disguise she used to
call it.
He watches until she rounds thecorner.
Then he looks away, quick,sharp, like her memory just
slapped him.
He doesn't want to cry, hedoesn't let himself, but
(33:16):
something folds in his chest.
He opens his notebook, blankpage, writes a word drifting and
underlines it hard.
The knight doesn't respond.
He leans back, closes his eyes,tries to remember the last time
someone said his name Can't,not once, not since.
(33:37):
For the first time he wondersif it matters.
Part 6.
The Hollow Hour.
There's a new smell in theshelter tonight, not the usual
cocktail of mildew and bleach.
This one's darker, metallic,like rusted coins and something
(34:01):
faintly sour underneath.
He doesn't ask, no one does.
He learns fast that questionscost too much in places like
this.
He lies in his bunk, bottom row,second from the door.
The mattress sags in the center.
It smells like piss, no matterhow many times he flips it.
He used to cover it with hiscoat.
(34:23):
Now he wears the coat and justaccepts the stink.
That's the evolution.
He hasn't spoken to anyone allday no greetings, no eye contact
, no nods of recognition.
The world doesn't speak to himand now, finally, he stopped
trying to speak to it.
(34:44):
He gets up around midnight anduses the bathroom.
It's a fluorescent hell,fuzzing lights and rust-stained
sinks.
A man with blood on hisknuckles washes silently next to
him.
Neither says a word.
That's the language now Silence, through glassy stairs and
careful distance.
He wipes his face, looks intothe mirror, doesn't recognize
(35:05):
what's staring back.
He's thinner, taller, jawtighter.
There's a scratch under hiseyes he doesn't remember Getting
.
When did that happen?
How many nights has he slepthere?
Now Four Ten.
He looks down.
The night's still in his pocket, still cold, still silent.
(35:26):
He holds it in the palm of hishand as he walks back to his
bunk.
Looks like nothing in thislight.
It looks just like a piece ofmetal, like a thing.
He lies back down and places iton his chest, closes his eyes
and breathes.
It doesn't hum For a long time.
He just listens to the shiftingbunks, to the murmured
(35:50):
nightmares of the man next tohim, to the click of a lighter.
A few beds down, someone'ssmoking something.
They shouldn't.
No one cares.
He pulls the blanket tighter Atsome point someone screams, a
real scream, blood thick andanimal-like.
He doesn't flinch.
(36:10):
The scream cuts out fast.
No footstep, no fight.
No footstep, no fight.
Just one sudden moment and thengone.
Few men stir.
One curses One, says a prayer.
He turns over, closes his eyes.
Again the night is gone.
He bolts upright, handscrambling across the mattress,
(36:33):
checks the pocket empty.
His heart lurches, panic,swells like a flood.
He tears off the blanket, dropsto the floor there near the
bunk leg, just out of reach.
He grabs it, holds it tight,breath shaking, chest heaving.
Why did that feel like dying?
He lies back down, pressing thenight to his chest like it
(36:57):
might melt through him.
He can't lose it.
He doesn't know why, but hejust can't.
The thought hits him like awhisper in his skull.
What if this is all you haveleft?
He doesn't sleep, stares at theceiling.
Over and over again, the samethree words spin in his head I
(37:21):
am nothing In the morning.
He walks, doesn't eat, doesn'tspeak, just walks.
A woman offers him changeoutside a gas station.
He nods.
He thanks her.
She pulls her kid a littlecloser.
Here's the kid whisper.
Why does he look like that?
The woman shushes him.
(37:43):
He walks faster, near anunderpass he finds a cement
column covered in graffiti, mostof it's names.
One word stands out, gone,written in huge black letters.
Someone tried to cross it outin red, but it still bleeds
through.
He takes out his notebook,writes the word circles.
(38:04):
It Then adds something beneathno one says your name, do you
still exist?
The night hums just once, soft,low, almost like a sigh.
He grips it again.
But it's cold, no heat, nowarmth, just wait.
He keeps walking until he'stired, so tired he can't think,
(38:28):
finds a bench near the trainstation, sits, watches people
with places to be pass bywithout seeing him, looks at his
hands Whose are these?
He mutters.
He's not sure if he meant tosay it out loud, but he did and
no one answers.
That night he sits in theshelter bathroom again, wipes
(38:51):
the mirror clean, looks into hisown eyes, looks into his own
eyes.
I don't know who I am anymore,he whispers.
For the first time it soundstrue.
(39:11):
All right, let's get into themonologue.
This is the hour no one talksabout.
Not rock bottom, not theawakening, not even the collapse
.
This is the hollow hour, thehour where a man floats between
who he was and who he'll neverbe again the place where the
world doesn't hurt because itdoesn't feel like anything at
all.
In this episode, we watch theman go silent.
(39:33):
He's not numb, that would implythat he felt too much.
This is something way worse.
He's becoming a shadow in themargin of his own life.
He walks through the city likea ghost, with a pulse.
The shelter isn't a refuge,it's a holding pen, and every
night he lies on that rankmattress with a war raging in
(39:57):
his head between two versions ofhimself One that remembers and
one that just wants to forget.
The night, once mysterious andhumming with potential, is now
cold, indifferent, a silentpassenger.
And that's the metaphor, isn'tit?
We all carry something thatused to mean everything, until
(40:18):
the silence gets louder than thesignal, until we start asking
if we've invented the meaningjust to survive.
This is the part of the journey.
I should say this is the partof the journey, what most men
skip when they tell theircomeback story.
They talk about thebreakthrough, the business
launch, the power, but theydon't talk about the days they
(40:39):
didn't shower, the nights theystared at the ceiling for seven
hours straight, the silent panicof losing a small object you've
assigned meaning to, becauseit's the only thing that felt
like it knew your name.
They don't talk about the daythe world stopped seeing you.
And this?
He doesn't grow, he doesn'tevolve, he sinks.
(41:02):
And that is sacred, Because noman ever truly climbs until he's
knelt before his own ruin andhas refused to call it permanent
.
What you might have missed ishow the world responds to his
silence.
The woman who pulls her childaway, the graffiti word that
says gone, the knight hummingonce and then dying again.
(41:25):
These are not just poeticdetails, they're clues.
This isn't the story of a manfinding power.
This is the story of a manrealizing he has nothing,
nothing left to lose.
And in that realization, thathaunting moment of nothing left
(41:45):
is what begins to strip thelesser man out of him.
He doesn't know it yet, butthis decay is sacred.
You might be in it right now.
You might be the man who hasn'tcried in weeks because the
tears dried up before they couldfall.
The man who walks into hishouse and doesn't feel like it
belongs to him.
The man who keeps checking thetime and doesn't know why.
(42:06):
And if that's you, don't rush,don't force the rise, sit in the
hollow.
It has something to say,because the only thing more
dangerous than a man who has itall is a man who's lost it all
and didn't die.
You're still here, that'senough and that's more than most
(42:32):
.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto our reflection.
Question Number one what inyour life has stopped you from
feeling but you still carry?
Reflection two where are youpretending to be fine, just so
others won't look too closely?
What was the last moment youtruly felt invisible?
(42:52):
Number four is there an objectin your life that holds meaning
no one else knows about?
That's a big question.
And number five what would itlook like to embrace the silence
instead of fighting it?
That's another really bigquestion.
So this is a heavy one, guys.
(43:14):
This is going to be a heavyseries, so I just want to let
you guys know that.
But I promise you his ascensionis going to be amazing.
So, anyways, the support wejust get with this show, it just
I can't tell you how much itmeans to me.
All your guys' questions, yourcomments, it just really means a
(43:36):
lot to me and your support isjust amazing.
So thank you so much for that.
Now, if you're someone who wantsto, you know, support the show.
Best way to do it is sharethose with your friends, review
it on on whatever platformyou're listening on, but sharing
it is.
Sharing is caring, as they sayright.
Um, now, if you want to get ahold of me, you want to talk
(43:57):
about this series, this episode,or maybe you're going through
something like this, that's whatI'm here for.
I'm here to help you.
So there's a couple of differentways you can do it.
First way is on the descriptionof this podcast.
There's a function that sayslet's chat.
Once you click on that, you andI can have a conversation about
this series, this episode, the14 other series that are out
there and the 260 plus episodesthat I have on this podcast.
(44:19):
Second way is going to bethrough my email.
My email isanthonyatgentsjourneycom.
And then, last but not least,you can always go to my
Instagram.
My Instagram is mygentsjourney.
Please, please, please, feelfree to reach out to me there as
well.
So again, guys, thank you somuch for your support today and,
(44:40):
as always, remember this youcreate your reality.
Take care Bye.
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