commuting on the subway, i was reminded again of the small, seemingly unimportant and repetitious motions of everyday.
i feel like i’ve written so many words of these sorts, expressing a sentiment that i wish lasted longer than brief instances.
but whenever i do feel it, i have the unhinged urge to write it, because i see life—just as it is—apart from the selfish context of my own, aware of the surrounding presence of everyone around me, each wrapped up in their own minds, in their own experiences, in their own problems, in their own routines, in their own judgements, in their own pasts, in their own dreams,
on their own.
i stop walking to look up at the blue ceiling of the grand central, mimicking a sky with golden constellations. i notice the sculpted details on the framed arches, acorns and oak leaves fill the space subtly, and i pause to imagine the history that had once lived here under this very roof suddenly turn to a thought of what will become after time one day.
and in all this i look around me, and i find myself here, right now.
but even then, i’m only sitting, only writing words on paper, attempting to prolong a sentiment i wish lasted longer and was more than just a brief instance.