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Every compass will break

Disappointed Kumar #domokumar #classic #sillygoose

When it's There

The doors close at 9:32. The cart is somewhat empty. Sprinkling of people here and there. No rush. You can find a seat. A young Hispanic teenager sits directly north west of me. A beautiful Muslim mother and daughter in bright colorful sarees are a few feet away from me. I can barely make out the train conductor. As if he has no care for his job or through time the speaker system of the trains just deteriorates. Either way it gives a sense of apathy. That’s the thing about NYC. It’s inspiring and apathetic at the same time. All these city lights and amazing people. But people forget that these same lights are the ones that work every single night. The lights that drive taxis, the ones that operate machinery at night to make sure they meet a deadline. All these lights but no fire. Dreams of success but are truly realized that not all dreams come true. My jeans are dirty. There’s paint on them. Just a splash of paint. The lighting of the train changed. A slow warming peach instead of a dreaded yellow. People enter. People get off. I never enjoyed trains. Unless it was the only means of seeing someone. I’ve taken them almost every single day or my life but I despise them. Untold stories. Quiet faces. More embraces with a phone than anything really. We’re all staring at each other’s shoes as if the sneakers themselves will speak for us. Through the graffitied window I can see my reflection. I see myself. I see a tired man. I see a man who puts others first. A lost boy who despises everything and everyone. I hate how this fucking guy has dreadlocks. I hate how everyone here is wearing shorts because I’m self conscious about my legs and the hair, or how thick my thighs could be. I don’t even know what station I’m on. This lady is staring at my shirt. She gives me a look as if she’s disgusted with the youth. I’m sorry if I hide my insecurities in clothing. I’m sorry if my shirt makes you feel uncomfortable. I’m sorry that you’re clutching your purse tighter. Unfortunately to disappoint you, I can’t tell you I don’t like leather bags. I see myself again through the graffiti. I look sick. But I don’t feel sick. The roaring 20’s where you’re supposed to have the world at your hands. My life solely consists of two things. Work and sleep. I don’t have time for you. I don’t have time for love. I don’t even have time for myself. Some people play sports. Some people cook. I work. Any opportunity to show my means I take it. Underpaid, overpaid, it’s irrelevant to me. Myrtle ave. Panic attack. Controlled breathing. In. Out. In. … … Out. … … I breathe out and hopefully am assured that my body, lungs, mind, and heart are doing their best to pump blood, convert oxygen, etc. Etc.

The Muslim mother and daughter are replaced with a couple. At least they’re embracing each other. I feel uneasy that his hand is in her skirt. But this is a filthy G train, I wouldn’t expect any less.

My feet are numb. They haven’t moved in the past twenty or so minutes. The train becomes illuminated again. This time of a luminous cherry red. Each station gives off a distinct color. Fuck this dude to the right of me. His fucking hair color is just; it’s something I’d like. But it wouldn’t go with my skin color.

I don’t smile. My hands are stationed at my lap. I’ve been on this train for far too long. All I’m thinking about is my past and how it’s just making me cry. I want to cry. I hope I do. Maybe then one of these strangers can give me a tissue. I just have paper on me. I feel numb. I feel empty. They say your body is a vessel for your soul. But I feel as if my soul isn’t there or it’s empty. The train is a bright white now. Remember to breathe in and out.

There’s a blood stain on the floor. Right under my foot. Oddly enough the train doesn’t smell like iron at all. I need more than this. My needs are insignificant. But perhaps significant enough for me to understand. The doors open at 10:02

#domokumar #writing #nyc #creative writing