Who gets an amazing job offer and breaks into hives? What kind of person has to take half an anti-anxiety pill so their hands will stop shaking and they can go on a date?
If anyone on the subway gave a shit enough to look, they’d see my hands. But they don’t. The beauty of New York (a phrase I find myself constantly going back to in my writing because I clearly need reaffirmation) is simple. Everyone is nuts. There are different breeds, but aside from the mild assortment, we are, all of us, mad.
So I’m on the subway, and I’m on the way to meet a guy who found this blog that no one reads, and I’m calmer, sure. I’m trying to slow down my breathing and tune out everything that reminds me everything has changed. I am trying not to be overtaken by these waves of variation. I refuse to succumb to a syncopated heartbeat.
Alright, and the subway. I’m on it. And, well, it doesn’t care who you are or what sort of crazy you might be. It just keeps going, people getting on, people getting off. And then it starts over again, racing through the underground tubes like blood through the city’s veins.
What a circle of life. What a psycho animal kingdom.