Excellent This is a brief snippet of a trip abroad. A Delusional Ride by Avery Daniel True Story Contest contest entry

There I sat, convinced I held the answers to life’s toughest questions. There I sat, believing I wielded the power of the universe. There I sat, on a flight to Charles de Gaulle Airport, intent on rescuing—what I thought to be—my chosen people. There I sat, a delusional man on a mission. There I sat, likely unnerving those around me as I spoke of white doves and red carpets awaiting us. There I sat, burdened by the belief that I was responsible for all of life’s grand oddities and the downfall of humanity itself. There I sat, gripped by the deep and troubling idea that I was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. Before this impromptu flight to Paris, I had recently completed a study-abroad program that took me to over 25 countries in nine months. Most were European, as my university was near Paris—a location I initially thought was Versailles, thanks to a misleading name. The grandeur I associated with Versailles mirrored my ambitions then: I was chasing purpose, and I thought I’d found it in a divine calling. Why Paris? Perhaps because it’s called the City of Love. My intentions, however skewed, were rooted in love—or so I told myself. When I arrived, though, I was crushed. There were no white doves. No red carpet. I wasn’t destined to become the French president as a stepping stone to unite all nations. None of it was real. My stay in Paris was brief. The snap back to reality was brutal. Having planned nothing, none of my credit cards worked. I had only 7 euros left over from my previous time in Europe, which I promptly spent on club admission. There I stood, alone in the middle of a dance floor where others hesitated to join. I was the object of curiosity but felt like a stranger to myself. There I stood, a man many found bizarre—a homeless man, for the first time in my life. Strangers showed small acts of kindness: someone let me use their charger, and a late-night café offered free Wi-Fi. Panhandling outside the club gave me just enough for a meal. There I sat in a French train station, alone, penniless, battling my brain, ego utterly deflated, waiting for my mom to save the day. And I waited. And waited. I was homeless, manic, hungry, confused - desperate to go home. I no longer cared about finishing college or fulfilling some grand destiny. I was not convinced I was not Jesus yet, but I knew something was not quite right. What lay ahead? A decade of mending my broken soul. Author Notes This story may sound incredibly wild, but I have much wilder stories to tell. All I can do is hope there’s time.

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