Sentences #15

I tried to make myself another.
The mask was ready and in place.
Yet you could see past the me I made.
You bid farewell to the me you saw;
now I must bid farewell to the me I made for you.

 

Stations – Prologue

This is the beginning of an extended project. Every week I will publish a chapter of what could be called a memoir or maybe a travelogue.  I know for sure there will be at least three chapters, as I have three in stages vaguely resembling completion, join me for my subway ride.

I think to some extent subways are to city kids what cars are to country kids. The first time I rode the subway by myself was an exhilarating moment. I had taken control of my life.  I could go to the farthest edges of my big city and explore. There is a freedom in the subway token like there is freedom in a driver’s license.

For five years the subway was my only way to move.  If it was too far to walk I bought tokens and meandered my way there.  Sometimes, to get there, all you need is a subway, some times it takes a subway and a bus.  Every once in a while I had to get to a station where a friend would drive me to our destination.  With the TTC, you will get there, it could be minutes when it should be hours or hours when it should be minutes, but you will get there, eventually.

It strikes me that there are people that make us who we are and things that make us who we are.  The object may be less powerful than the person but the subway overshadows so much of who I am and where I’ve been.  No other form of transit has carried me more miles.

For all I’ve ragged on the TTC and how poorly managed our transit system is, I grew up on it, I moved like a teenager on it. I traveled to and from work on it.  It took me to friends, it took me to loves, I found both while riding it, for better or worse.  These are the stories, people, and stations where the subway took me.

 

Sentences #14

I don’t run on Thursdays.
Thursdays are for dancing shoes and a lovely lady.
Thursdays are for sharp daggers and a new lonely.
I didn’t run on Thursdays.

 

Sentences #13

Pigments and Pixels
Torn and tossed into the pacific.
They have traveled with me three years.
From journal to journal, a consistency of you,
No longer there.

 

In Between

The broken heart must find a way to mend.
To mend or die is what hearts do.
But there is pain as the healing rends,
Between I love you and I loved you.

The memories that crack through shuttered windows
Lights up shattered glass like sun on dew.
Too tired to care whose fault this is though,
Between I love you and I loved you.

The defense in dreams of reunion,
Is broken as the stone comes through.
And the sheer facts start to set in
Between I love you and I loved you.

There is a pain that seems endless,
In a future, no longer true.
I hope it drowns in forgiveness
Between I love you and I loved you.

 

Sentences #12

“Repent, the end is near”
A painted sign at a busy intersection.
The end has been near for quite some time.
Yet, my end is closer than I care to admit.
“Repent, Your end is near.”
Would be the sign that I would carry,
Maybe dulling the voice inside me:
“Repent, My end is near.”

 

Sentences #11

Dreams get smaller.
Years and knowledge chip away at their borders.
Disillusionment lays waste to once fertile fields.
Fields become gardens, forgotten from a shed,
Until an old man dies in a small room,
wondering where the years went.

 

Sentences #10

I make you in my mind.
I make you my ambitions and desires.
You unmake yourself.
You make yourself real.
I know there is someone beyond myself.
Because you, as you, are so much more.

 

Sentences #9

We used to walk on grass,
Through trees and glades.
Now we walk on concrete,
Through forests of glass and brick.
Things are harder now,
like corners and bodies.
The soft cannot survive.

 

Sentences #8

“Are you happy?”
“Yeah I’m happy.”
“Really?”
“No.”

 

CC License 

 

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