The E train wound its way through midtown and along Queens Boulevard. Weary travelers already, we yawned and mourned the end of a not so unusual, and still so pleasant, week. Such is the thing about family, after all. New York was a grey, cold Friday afternoon, and probably best spent in bed. I walked through the transfer center at Jamaica and felt the familiar tingle of travel. Soon I will be there myself. I never tire of the feeling of transit. The elevator smelled of travelers, of airport bathroom soap and expectations. I rode the subway home reluctantly, tempted to stay out there for just a little longer, in the delicious feeling of going.
Back in the Village, the apartment was unusually quiet, and I slept like a baby. My phone kept demanding answers of me, kept tempting me with illicit proposals, and I am torn between what I need to do and that which I desire. The ground has already been spoken for, I remind myself, and pretend to look away. How quickly my heart beats, in all the wrong directions, and sometimes that which is closest is still endlessly far away. I ignore the racing blood and turn to my evening's work. Words get so easily convoluted, and I am grateful for another outlet where they may flow freely.
It occurs to me
that I would follow the yellow brick road
if only I knew where to start.
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the feeling of transit. i miss it so. och dig.
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