I rest my cheek against my hand and slump my shoulders. My eyes feel as if a weight is being laid upon them. I continue to write because it keeps the chatter out of my head. Ambient noise. White noise is what it’s called. It’s my writing tune.
I sit up and take notice to the couple behind me. Adorable, young and fresh. They sound to be in the first couple months of knowing each other. So many secrets. So many acid-washed skeletons. I hope they make it to the end of this race. The red tape. The man teaches her how to play Sudoku. I’ve never learned but he’s a good teacher. Pausing long enough to gauge a reaction and speaking soft to show affection.
My attention is pulled away at the sight of a city. A florescent spill of light on the brown underneath. There are bright veins that pulsate and move in a horrifying fashion. A monster. A consumer! Devourer! A cancer that feasts on all it touches. Mandibles stretch along the coast and deep into the bay. It’s the face of the end. I am staring into the dim glow of our own personal apocalypse. A slow death.
And yet I return to the chatter. People. Mask-less jesters trying to entertain themselves. I hear laughter. It’s followed by more anonymous dribble. Two men in front of me talk of Nebraska and weather. A head bob. A flick of the hand. The back arches and the eyes grow wide. Take it all in. Observe.
There is an itch on my neck, which is when I realize the length of my nails. This causes me to notice these words and this writing. Insanity brought sane. The uncontrollable now tame. Domesticated. Brought under the thumb. It doesn’t make sense. A median. A channel through which thought, emotion and logic can be materialized.
I believe the day I can answer that question is the day I am no longer a writer. I write for no one and nothing.
I write for myself.