Thursday, 28 January 2016

Glacial Awareness.

There is nothing that I would not face
With vengeance and annihilate
Sever off the hands of fate
If it were to keep you safe
If a million reasons came my way
None of them could take your place
You will never be alone
I will never let you
Let you go
Pinned watching the old man flick his newspaper to his lap every time the young children across from him yell and run down the hall. One lady is knitting a sweater in the corner with round needles. She looks unhappy but satisfied she is using her time well enough. The young woman with her phone buzzing incessantly transmits every movement, thought and feeling into it for validation and the man beside me is wearing shoes and carrying a bag that belies his young minimalist approach to life, highlighting maybe a trust fund or merely a comfortable upbringing. You can tell a lot about a man by the shoes he wears, both size and make. I don't know why that is but I'm bored and constructing life-stories of those around me, based on flash judgements, based on nothing.Weighing as much as these clouds but no more. You can't put any effort into something so light.

My headphones are on very low. I'm listening to songs I love. I'm ignoring the words in favor of the near-dark around me. The grit and damp of early January. The cold/warm, sun/rain, wind/still sort of dirt-filter that hallmarks winter here in the rain forest. No one seems to notice how strange the sun seems after a week of heavy rain. No one notices my sketchbook or the flowers I'm drawing from memory. Not a lot has changed in my waiting in twenty-five years. I can wait for hours, weeks even, as long as I have headphones and a pencil. Lochlan once said one of those days we travelled I was going to be left behind in a bus station somewhere in New Jersey because I would tune out the world so easily. I knew that wouldn't happen because he was there to make sure I went with him when time was up.

The man to my other side shifts his legs and checks his watch. His pockets are stuffed with stolen memories. They fall out and people leave shoe-marks on them, a travesty under any circumstances. These are not his and so he pays them no mind but the person who belongs to each one would most likely ransom their own soul to have them back.

But then I remember that they are all mine, and that I have no soul to use for collateral to get them all back. In fact, Sam assures me I won't get them all back anyway and the ones that I do may be altered in order for me to be whole enough again for people to make judgements about my shoes or my waiting-style or the number of bracelets going up my left arm because that's what people do. He doesn't care that I worry about some of the bigger ones that get dented and roll away into corners and he doesn't worry that I care that he might miss something. He sits and waits with me, reading his notes, highlighter in hand, sheets of cheap paper balanced on knees. Just like Jake except for the fact that it isn't Jake, its Sam and maybe that's what he meant by changing memories. I don't hate it, exactly. It's easier even though somehow it weighs more than the other parts of the day. I guess that's part of my New Abnormal or whatever Lochlan called it last night when he told the story of the time he left me on the bench, caught up in my brain-music and drawings while he got on the bus, just to see if I would actually notice.

I didn't but he didn't take it personally either.

What if the driver had refused to stop to let me on? Sometimes they don't, you know. Sometimes they have a schedule to keep and no patience for teenage pranks.

He was an old guy, Bridge. Had pictures of his grandchildren taped up all over the sun visor. I knew he wouldn't leave a young woman in a deserted bus station late at night alone.

Risking my life with his own weightless judgements wasn't something I want to repeat, so now I make sure I look around in between each song, at the very least.