New York Subway

People moving, going different places. But for a brief moment, maybe longer, are brought together in a large metal tube speeding underground.

There’s a man playing a violin. An old woman, dressed in baggy rags, stands to dance to his music, feeling her heart struck by his chords. A man stops to drop a few dollars in his case, smiling at the woman as he does so. The three of them are joined together in that moment, through music, through movement, through time and space.

On the subway, a group of young men dressed in baggy jeans and snapbacks laughs loudly at some joke one of them made. A young woman perfectly put together reads some documents. She looks like a law student, in her pea coat and pencil skirt, hair in a ponytail because there’s no time to have it perfectly polished anymore.

A man walks through the train, proclaiming his story. He just got of jail, he says. He needs some cash to get on his feet. He has nothing, he says. Please help him. Everyone avoids contact. He could be more polite, I think. Then I wonder how many times he’s done that today, put himself out there like that. Any coins he could get would be worth more than his dignity is. Still, his calls receive no response.

Two police officers board at another stop. They each stand on opposite sides of the train, arms crossed, staring straight ahead. Serious.

A baby cries as she’s rocked back and forth in her stroller by her mother. Or maybe her nanny. Shh, baby, she says.

Late at night, a young man and woman in a quiet place on the platform. They’re drunk. He tries to kiss her, she tells him to stop. He does. When I look back to make sure she’s okay, they are seated together side-by-side.

Important businessmen and women head to Wall St., starving artists head to their minimum wage jobs to pay the bills. People fight, people cry, people laugh. The train is there through it all. Everyone has experienced heartache, everyone has a story. Everyone passes each other by, consumed by their own thoughts, feelings, trials and tribulations.

This is New York, where everyone can be themselves because everyone is different anyways.

A writer with depression, what else is new. Passionate about feminism, and making the world a better place.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s