Sad Beauty

The man and woman get on the bus, reeking of pot. The woman holds the baby, dragging the stroller packed full of blankets, bottles, toys behind her up the stairs. The woman grabs the trashcan as she enters, propping it on the chair next to her. She passes the baby off to the man, and cradles the trash can instead. As she turns, her flaccid, stretch marked stomach flops over the top of her hip hugger jeans. Disgusted, she moves to pull her shirt down, but instead leaves it how it is. Coughing, she turns to the trashcan and vomits. Opening the window—either to allow fresh air into the bus or to dissipate the stench of marijuana, I can’t tell. The husband has caught my attention. Face still pocked with acne and scars, he nibbles on the baby’s ears. “Hello Mr. Baby” he repeats, over and over again. Insecure but trying to make the best of it. Still a child himself. Then the baby catches my eye and holds me with his bright, unblinking blue-eyed stare. “What are you?” I can see him mentally asking himself, just as I silently ask him “What are you to become?” I notice tears in the young mother’s made up face, and she dabs at them, hoping her mascara won’t start running. Hoping the makeup will hide her sadness, but knowing it doesn’t. She reaches over to the man, begging him to sit next to her, maybe hold her hair as she vomits again. “We’re almost there” The driver tries to comfort “I don’t know where you’re going” Neither do they. Just away. I press the yellow strip to signal I want to get off. I leave them like that, man cradling woman, woman cradling trash can, baby wondering what it all means.

Reflections

Something is changing inside of me. I feel it just underneath my skin, something new, something different that wasn’t there before. My own Dark Passenger, if you will. I feel withdrawn, still, happier by far in silence, surrounded by only myself—thinking or feeling my own emotions rather than packing myself with people, like a fish on ice. I am not afraid to be alone, and that is how I spend much of my time. The dogs are my constant and sometimes only companions while I’m at home. They don’t make demands, don’t care if I want to sit quietly and think, and only offer occasional sighs or licks as punctuation to my thoughts. Here, I feel that I must step in and explain that I love being with my friends as well, I am not resigned to hermitage in my house with the blinds drawn, scratching words over and over again on my walls like a disturbed patient, but I love my house and the solitude it offers. My insides are raw, scraped bloody by this something inside of me, struggling to get out. I can go nowhere without a pen and a pad of paper, because at the least expected moments, my something frantically screams lines from poems, stories or novellas begging to be written. I can’t force them to the back of my brain as I had been able to in the past. This time and place in my life is certainly not conducive to making friends or “getting out”, but finally I am able to write. This shadow I feel inside me swells, guiding my hand to put pen to paper, wringing out desperate words from my previously stagnant brain. My works are not bright, but for all who know me, I’m sure it is no surprise. I don’t feel depressed, manic or disturbed, just finally like the writer I have strove for so long to become.

Purple

As I sit in front of the computer, eyes locked on the ubiquitous flashing cursor, my numbing brain slides hauntingly closer to the inevitable realization of inadequacy. While words jumble, writhing and churning through the unfathomable spider-silk of my cerebellum, an idea withers, trapped on a single silver fiber as many glinting eyes stare lovingly at their next meal. Bitter food for thought in a darkly famished world. Scanning the fortitude of satirical ballads, we have fallen, corpses under the blood-bright light of the reddening sun. Unworthy as we are, we fade away. Apathetic apoplectic people merging, endless mixers in a churning vortex, tiny pinpoints of light in an otherwise star starved sky. Desecration in a sterile world.

Public Transportation

I love the bus. I love letting someone else drive me where I need to go, and I especially love not having to drive aimlessly up and down the packed aisles of the parking lot, fruitlessly searching for a spot. That being said, this love of mine is greatly overshadowed by the people on the bus. Yesterday, like all other Wednesdays this year, I got on the bus, headed toward the back, and sat down on one of the front-facing seats. As I sat there waiting for the bus to start off, a girl stood in the doorway discussing the route with the driver. Apparently, the large, scrolling yellow words in the window were too complicated for her to understand, and the map, numbered stops and times of departure and arrival too vague. Anyway. Once she was finally convinced that this was the only bus heading in her direction, she came on, passed by at least 20 other empty seats, and sat down on the sideways facing seat directly behind me. I could almost feel her breath on the back of my neck, and could not put my head back without touching her. Casually, I slumped forward a bit in my chair in order to at least give me some semblance of solitude in my seat. I considered moving over, but the bus was already in motion, and figured it wasn't too big of a deal. As we rode on, after about 15 minutes of sitting in such close proximity, her phone rang. Being so close to her, I couldn't help but overhear "no, I can't. I have Strep Throat." Now wait just one minute. What right does this girl have to spread her diseases to unsuspecting people? There were other perfectly suitable chairs, far away from anyone who could have caught her sickness. There is nothing shameful in sitting in the far back corner, or even wearing one of those paper face masks. In fact, I might take to doing those very things. I might even get a belt holster for antibacterial spray. I can get a shoulder strap like in the old war movies and just pack it full of lysol instead of bullets. There is just something inherently wrong with getting sick from someone you don't know. Getting sick should at least involve something fun like sharing bodily fluids with a friend, then at least you are familiar with the germs you got. Now, after observing those on the bus always sitting alone, I have more weapons in my arsenal. Today, when someone sketchy tries to sit near me, I will drool. Look blankly at them, clutch my imaginary baby to my chest and rock back and forth, pretend to be asleep, talk to someone sitting next to me, when there is nobody there, forget to shower for a month, pack my lunch bag with week old sardines or do any combination of the above.