on the train

Haven’t written here in a minute, but I have random scraps of writing to cast into the void.

There is a disemboweled kind of empty around things today. One that bears the marks of once being filled. I’ve been watching a man scroll on his phone with his eyes closed and another crazy guy dressed all in white who I could barely make out until he turned around to yell at me and shove his hand in a woman’s face. After that he sauntered off into Penn station. Afterwards, he turned around and I noticed his Sunday whites smeared with the mud of his awful demeanor. The people getting on right now barely made the train but they’re calm about it. I’d be wheezing, thanking my lucky stars. The tufts in my knit hat look like truffula trees to pull and fashion around this ballooning emptiness. Right now I’d appreciate a little pill that gives me life, ounce by ounce. I can’t even tell if I’m moving or still. I’d like a pill that will tell me if I’m moving or still. If I’m still and tired like a wax figure with eyes gently squinted like the precursor to prayer. Who places the debris on the steps? Who walks the steps and tires them out? I’m making eye contact with the man sitting in front of me through our reflections in the window. We both glance and glance away sheepishly. I’d really like some candy and a soda. Alone. Alone. Don’t fall asleep sir, you’ll miss your stop.

Imagining my voluptuous garden where I remind everyone how lovably miserable things can be. This is where I gather up observed truths in my arms and run with them, a full sprint across some busy avenue of empty pasture until I run out of gas. I worry I can’t carry enough in my arms. I worry I’m sick. She goes to the garden or museum or wherever she always comes back to, and her imaginings of being watched are confirmed. All those things which where figments-so-real and knowledge-so-fearsome that they had to be boxed, squashed, plucked, and extinguished all of a sudden seemed observably true. You know those thoughts. You do. Those ones conceived by the firings of neurons just so. These sublime “ahas” might be evoked by a tree that looks a bit like your mother, the same fabric that upholstered your childhood couch, or the horrible sensation of eyes on your back.

I’ve gone cold but she’s next to me. I can stop writing and know that she’s here next to me.