can't you hear me knocking

The shop was a fragrant and warm reprieve from the rain and the cold, though I had no intention of buying any of the overpriced kitschy glittery gift-shop mystic merchandise on the shelves. The girl behind the counter, a bespectacled blond in earthenware with microbangs, greeted me upon my entry. I fondled the dangling automatized pendulum of a contraption labeled "decision maker' and asked it whether I'd encounter and be saved by my occult prince. It toggled to "yes"just as David Bowie's "underground" began to play. 

I ventured to the other local metaphysical shop for no other reason than to pass the time, see if I was called to something. I considered a velvet bag of overpriced runes before regarding the statuettes. Front and center, a small, bearded effigy of Loki confronted me. I opened my camera, only dimly aware of whatever song had begun to play over my headphones. It was one I had never heard by The Rolling Stones. 

Can't you hear me knockin'

On your window?
Can't you hear me knockin'
On your door?
Can't you hear me knockin'
Down your dirty street?

I was almost tempted to buy the figure, carry it around with me like a charm, but I knew better than to carry chaos in my pocket. It was something I loathed to acknowledge, what had happened all those years ago. The upheaval, the distress so great it forced me into a dual awareness away from my physical form. I saw so many things, a gift from the terror. I didn't know if I could handle it again. So I dig my heels in and scream every time that particular facet of my intuition kicks up. I promised I would never invite him in again. 

I went to a coffee shop to grab something to stave me over until 8:00PM and began to outline a few case files of personal occult intrigue. The journal, I would have to wait to hear about until at least tomorrow. I wondered if my life would change in any kind of measurable way upon finding it. Would it give me a lead into the metaphysical, or just be a deadend of cursive describing rappings on the wall at night? Either way, it would be cool, and I would write of it. I can't help to speculate though, whether this will be an inciting event. I took my coffee and braved the cold evening once more, stuffing my computer in my bag as I thought of the effigy. 

Inaccurate, sure. Loki was never bearded. But something about it told me that I would be forced to confront what I had locked out from my mind once more.