Wednesday, January 2, 2008
it was Insane to not Turn Away
I sat there my eyes closing, and then opening, my head falling over, the people sitting scattered through the train. My hands holding on the chilled cold frame, the guy right across from me keeps looking at me with a sort of smirk as to show that he finds my frail body a joke, as I sway in and out of REM while moving on the underground. I feel that visage, someone looking, her eyes are like a crystal ball, like the rain frozen in a movie, some wicked CGI, Its a faded onyx black with a hint of green. She turns over, I lift my head and turn as though looking at the map on the plastic banner, as thought it was my first time on this wretched ride that steals ninety minutes of my day, every day. I lean back, she turns away. Her face is pale white, a hint of red, like that painting in my room I once forged after several hours stuck looking at my easel my last semester, correction i refused to use the easel it was a drawing board leaned back on a stool. Her hair is fine, its black and golden brown on the edges, There's a thin layer of silver outline in her egyptian eyes, Her hair is pulled back and tide in a knot, it falls to the sides, by her ears forming a cascade, She moves from her sit, she turns sideward, leaning her eyes at the dark glass reflecting and the doors on the opposite side. She gets up looks down as she passes, and walks through the doors, they shut and she's gone. Her lean hipster victorian self is gone, A blue navy skirt on top of black jeans, faded keds, a brown burberry jacket, a crossed brown wool scarf, and one of those "Little Brown Bag"s from bloomingdales. what an Idiot, I looked away, at the map again, o yeah I am lost. when its El cerrito plaza, and just across runs San Pablo Ave. I guess thats it, I am still the same shy lad From before. I could have at-least said hi, Deja vu its all a dream; But I guess that its like a miner who lets the diamonds pass through his fingers in the lake, he sees them and sways his hand, for some weird reason he doesn't lift it up, he just sands there as the light flickers bye to the point its all dirt and mud, i guess its the fact that where he's from he's not aloud a diamond, its the blood he pours while digging for the rich man that keeps him alive, and dreams are but a fairy tale told in his head forced to never leave the round walls of his inner membranes for fear of being labeled insane.