Freestyle

There’s something to be said for writing without a true aim. Just letting the words flow, with no general aim or direction, reminds me of standing at the fron of the first car on the subway, watching the oncoming darkness rush at me.
I find myself sitting at the front of a car on the W, in one of the little two person benches. I am carefully sprawled, attempting to convince the people entering the train at each stop that I am not worth the effort to get to move. I find myself looking around.
A blonde girl looking sullen clutches to a Poland Spring bottle while he other hand reaches out for something, anything. A mexican guy sleeps with his arms folded, waking briefly at each stop. A 14 year old looking like she just ate the mildest of lemons is replaced by two chunky Brooklyn types. A red haired woman in glasses fusses with her handbag. A brown haired girl looks tired as she licks her lips and chews on her pinky.
What do I look like right now? What does my soul look like? Do I look as jaded and worn out as my felow commuters? Am I depressing on the eyes? I hope no. But I fear the answer is yes at this juncture. The part that hits me the hardest is the extent to which I don’t care about that any more.
I suddenly realize I haven’t taken an extended vacation – like a week or more to anywhere that I don’t frequently go to – in so long I can’t remember where it was I last went.
A girl has sat next to me. She has very white boots on.
Now we race towards the daylight – only now its the moonlight, as the day has long since slipped away while I yammered nervously about what we do for a living. I pray for the elevated track only as a means to compell myself to end this post once I acquire a network signal.
My eyes don’t burn so much as feel slightly scalded.
I do not look forward to the walk home as I can feel aches which I did not rightfully earn in my legs.
Dear friends, please don’t worry. This will pass, as it always does. Just understand if I seem less like myself.