Deconstructing the Boundary Between a Subway Car and a Single Life

An inextricable parallel continually flickers through my mind as I stand on a subway platform, staring down the cavernous tunnel. I trust, unquestionably, that the train will come on time and transport me to the location of my desire.

At last a glimmering light peaks through the profound nothingness. A vessel. I turn away, as I feel the artificial breeze ruffle through my coat tails. Such intense speed and all at once, it stops.

Anticipation, tension builds as doors slide open, but patience- let others exit before you enter.

Step inside and scan for a seat. Immediately a determination is made, you are either one of two types of people:
1. scavenger
2. soldier
I find myself to be the latter of the two by default, and by virtue the mere lack of seating during rush hour in NYC. But alas, no complaints for I am where I am as I’d want it to be.

Enter, as I secretly cosset myself in the scenic view of strangers. People I would otherwise never find myself in such close proximity to. Standing in the car, fingers gripped round the metal support pole, I find myself on a stage. On display, and instantaneously I am ultra-aware of my attire. My every subtle expression exhibited for this melancholy collection of strangers to behold. I glance around and am inundated in this sea of unfamiliarity.

At last an opening, and the burden shifts off my feet. The same anonymous audience, nevertheless I am again excited to indulge in my clandestine delight from a new angle. A snug fit, human contact and yet completely detached. Fortuitous eye contact is quickly averted, and reciprocated with an almost apologetic look away. Everyone sitting together and completely apart, separated by self-erected protective barriers. Personally, I found it difficult to connect with mom when she said, “ never talk to strangers”

United by our direction, destination, and divided by our respective stops; decisions. We trust, as together we plummet through emptiness, that we will arrive at where we intend. We share the same trust, and even so we continue to withdraw from each other, ultimately alienating ourselves from a sincere human experience. Our shields raised against a ubiquitous enemy, an undeserving outsider with no reason to prove harmful, and still we are on guard.

Especially the slightest gaffe in human interaction is quickly acknowledged as accidental… “I’m sorry for my eyes being open to the exquisiteness that is existence, for that my eternal apologies.” Because we are all strangers in a strange world, and I will be the lone visionary to smile at you when I see you, and you will have known it was me. And you would think to yourself… “hey, I read your blog and it was fabulous” … (I amuse myself)

Perchance this is the reactive dichotomy that births when life meets lifestyle. Are we not all traveling through the same darkness, chasing after the shoe strings of some glimmering ray of illumination? Sometimes it’s our train, and often times not. So we persist on that omnipresent platform, and wait for our train to take us where we want to go. Ultimately our destination is the same, regardless of the manner in which we reach. Our attitudes flow in different directions creating schisms that divide, and determine our experience during the ride.

And maybe the world would be better off if our mothers instilled a contrary doctrine into our moral repertoire… “talk to strangers”. If only we could all adopt this policy, we would be able to collectively disarm this mechanism of fear. Strangers would consequently cease to exist. (except maybe in zoo’s, locked away in cages reserved for the real weirdo’s)

So, perhaps our eyes have met in the past, and will meet in the future… but next time, try not to look away too quickly. You may very well have been staring into the eyes of a social revolutionary…or just another charlatan like yourself.

why i would never write a blog

I am an insignificant speck:

How important am I, that you would expend moments of your existence on reading my thoughts? The mere idea, that anyone would take away from their time to step into my stream of conciousness for even a second, for no reason whatsoever is beyond my frame of understanding. And yet you are here, reading these words, that bear no meaning to you. Reading about other people, perhaps gives your own life meaning. Reading their thoughts, criticisms, observations, maybe you take on those views as your own. A succession of recycled thoughts, criticisms, observations all circulating in a cyclic manner. In a world that bleeds for originality, we are still so far from it.

I guess I carry more weight than I thought.

Writing with the intention for others to read implies megalomania of some level:

I write, not for the intention of external validation. I would have to be slightly narcissistic, to want to see my words and know people are reading them. I must have delusions of granduer to believe that my words are even worth reading, worth you spending your time to read. I am a little too un-important on the scale of things to expend the vast power of the human mind. (ties in with the first point)

One caviat:
1. If perhaps, I held some position of significance to you, be it any level, this would be a singular justification for me to write, and in that case you would be justified in reading.

Detached:

In my constant attempts to connect with humanity, blogging would be another step away from it. You wanna know what I'm thinking? ask me.