Going to work and the sun has gone down. It feels stranger than going in the middle of the afternoon.
The train fills up with people who probably aren't going to work right now. Probably most of them have already gone to work. Somebody smells like fried chicken, I don't know who, and there's an abandoned stocking hat on the dirty floor of the subway car.
I feel like I've forgotten something, but I always feel like that.
I think about back home. My mom, my sister. They're still at work, it's probably not even dark where they are. Here, it's night time, dark as it ever gets.
Orange night sky, fired into color by city lights, waiting for me, searching for me as I shoot through underground tunnels. The train stops and the doors open, giving the illusion of out, even though when you step through the doors, you're still inside, you're still beneath several tons of brick and steel and people walking, standing, moving.
My eyes are tired, my head is tired, I keep thinking about something one of my friends said to me the other day. Something about how I'm constantly thinking, aren't I? Like, there are always loads of words going through my head? I told her, yeah pretty much.
Right now, my eye feels like it might explode and I dread having to go to work and deal with people. Wrong mind-set, you can just tell, and I wonder if I'll try to change it before I get to work.
Rolling pen between my fingers, where would you rather be? Do you hate your job or love it? The pen is doing what it's supposed to be doing, doing what it was made to do. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do. You ask people what a pen is supposed to do, and you will probably hear something like, "write." I don't know what I'm supposed to do, what I was made for. Nobody else seems to know what I'm supposed to do, either.
I'm radiating heat like a furnace, and mine is the next stop. Click, ding, stand clear of the closing doors.