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Subway Journals: Part 9 by Ray Printer Friendly


Tired. Keep thinking that'll stop, I think it every night when I get home, full of energy. I think, no, I feel good, I won't be tired tomorrow, and when the morning arrives, it finds me in bed, dressed or partially dressed or not dressed at all, and I am tired.

Racing the train this morning, it comes grumbling in as I reach the new franchise sandwich shop, and I break into a sprint, comfortable because this looks like a race easily won. Some guy standing at the bottom of the stairs, I don't know what he's doing but I know he's not running, which means he doesn't care about catching the train, which means he's in my way.

I grab a supporting column, green, cold, and dirty, and I use it to spin myself around the inside, keep from falling as I take a corner, and I'm halfway up the first flight of stairs before the guy has finished taking his first step up. Through the turnstile, thank goodness my Metro Card worked or I would have almost cut myself in half with the metal stop-bars.

Up the stairs, the train is stopped now, give yourself at least fifteen seconds for people getting on and off. The driver, she's in a hurry, I guess, because no fifteen seconds, those doors are practically closed before they're open, and the only thing keeping the train from moving at this point is my arm. It's sticking though the little space left between the doors, the little space that isn't supposed to be there, the little space that's created because I stuck my arm in there before the doors could close all the way. The race, it's starting to look like a tie, like a draw, and seconds pass and I'm starting to wonder if my arm is enough to keep the train from moving. Finally, the doors open, quick and then closed, and I step inside the train. Looks like I'm the victor this time.

Out of breath, out the window the world rolls behind me and in front of me and all around me.


Buzzing like a crazed fly, buzzing on the inside, riding passively, bathing in the warm waves of delirium. Sinking into my mind, the world is a distant screaming infant that I can't stop ignoring. Everything out of focus and my stomach churns.

People, hateful and hurtful, roaming red aisles in anger, looking for someone to unleash on. And if you smile, it just makes them mad.

Listen to the clock, ticking ever closer to the paths of fire and molten rage. Pull away, watching from internal distance, a million miles from the man screeching in front of me, watching watching watching. Spit flying from his lips, breath smelling like week-dead fish, and for some reason, he thinks the world owes him something.

Entered By Tracie From Unknown
2011-04-04 21:18:25

If I didn't know any better I would have thought that that train in the near future was going to tattoo you good! So glad you have left the sea of rage behind you~~

Entered By Ray From Austin
2011-04-05 01:53:15

Oh, Tracie, I haven't left it at all. Apparently, you haven't read anything else on this site. In August, I celebrate Hate Week, where I nurture my rage. There are post cards and everything.

Entered By Tracie From Unknown
2011-04-05 05:23:58

LOL Oh really? I am going to have to pursue some other avenues of your words then. I did read some shorts of yours, don't know if it lets you know when comments have come in on older stuff or not. It would be a good thing if it did.

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