monday feb 19 2024
4:30pm - subway ride home
I sit here, on the edge of this packed subway cart, at the mercy of my heightened emotions. My hands dry, my legs sore, from a busy shift bartending, tending to everybodies needs but my own. Frank Ocean's pink+white plays through my ears, as the sun passes through the thick clouds, penetrating this subway cart, casting a shadow only I can see. The thought of the emotional predicament ahead of me weighs heavy; what a world this is, what a world indeed. Subway terminals ring in the far distance, station by station, taking me home, but what is home anyways? Home is where the heart is I used to say. But the heart is wandering through trenches as bullets and arrows rain, and I walk with no umbrella in sight. I feel I've been on this train for ages, somehow delighted at the destination-less of this ride. Little did I know, Finch would never come. This was a train set for nowhere. Mind you, people got on and off, but seated with pen in hand I remained. Who would I be if I stayed here? Am I moving further from the person I always thought I am, or closer? Is there ever knowing, or do we just hop on and realize later? Isn't that what life is, doing and finding out later? Is there any point in knowing, I've known for too long. Why am I such a bad or weak person if I choose to remain in this shadow? The sun isn't shining anyways, look outside, or maybe it doesn't shine on me. Or maybe, just maybe, I don't stand outside long enough for it to come out. Hidden under moon and starlight, all I've ever known is the darkness, happiness is foreign. Or maybe I to myself is the one foreign. "Finch station", the intercom announces far off in the distance ..
This might become a series of short stories written solely on the subway, revolving around the feelings of being lost in this grand expanse while simultaneously trying to survive the day to day of life. I have zero expectations of what this is or might become, so in meantime here's a poem to start off this weekend right.
you know how much passion radiates from my skin
like a volcano gurgling underneath the earth
an uncontrollable feeling that takes over me
every so often i find myself staring at nothing
and nothing stares back
so often that we end up having lengthly conversations
also about nothing
to the point that nothing becomes something
this passion is unbridled, untamed
stored away in the most difficult places to reach parts of my brain
even days where i tire from its presence
it seeps through the things i seize to say
then randomly at a time usually inconvenient to the unseeable eyes
it bubbles up and takes over my being
and then i'm reminded why i do what i do
there is no such thing as happiness and sadness
just creation
just life
singular.
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