You know that feeling when you’ve gone for a run and your muscles are sore the next day. And each time you step, every fiber has to contract and expand individually. And you just cannot get them to orchestrate. And your arms are covered in bags full of groceries, and a purse carrying things that are supposed to help you. And the straps dig into your flesh that contorts and bulges under the stress of almond milk and apples. And the sun could break through the clouds, if it wanted to.
And you walk into the subway station as the Entire World briskly rushes to work while staring at the concrete they step on every day, every single day. And you put in your headphones so that you can filter out the people that want your attention, because perhaps you’re the only one who will give them any.
And you march to your train. And you suffocate your thoughts with music that you don’t listen to. And the people, and the people, and the people are all there. And they are just like you – on their way to Manhattan, with their books, and their music, and all the other things that are not this.
And suddenly you see a million arms, encased in black wool, raise in fear. And faces tighten. And eyebrows rise. And immediately everyone arrives to here. And this moment is too much. And the train halts just before a woman unconscious on the tracks. And her arms rest casually in front of her bent torso. And her cheek sags onto the metal rail, like a tomato left on the counter too long. And her jeans look just like the ones that you wore to lunch yesterday. And her hair is covering her eyes. And she looks so tired. And she looks so sad.
And you want to flee, and howl, and demand someone explain it to you. And time ricochets off objects, and spins in conflicting orbits. And the girl running cannot help but crawl, so the child – crying as quickly as tears can splatter, collides with the voice of the man saying “We need an officer!” And your neck does not move fast enough for your eyes to capture. And you stare at everyone around you. And none of them have an answer. None of them were prepared to be here either.
And your train comes. And you hop on. And you hope that she is OK. And you know that she is not. And you think about who you are, that you left a woman on the tracks. And you walk into your office. And your boss asks you “How was your morning?” without lifting his eyes from his spreadsheet. And you cross your legs. And you respond “Fine.”
You know that feeling?
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