I get scared, too. I never stopped. It doesn’t feel good. It, you know, it all feels like little waves of paranoia like hits from a cigarette. Just barely. Like little kisses to a cigar. Like the smoke sting in your eyes. Like that little heart-bump-bump-bump right afterward. I don’t know where it comes from. Hormones, I think. Chemicals flooding into your brain tissue, releases like that pop of air when you crack your knuckles. I cracked them so often a few of them stopped cracking all together. I quit smoking. It still doesn’t feel good. I still get scared. I still swallow whatever fear puffed up all the way to my pharynx. And then it floods back and soaks into my bones. I don’t know where the fear goes after that, after my little heart-bump-bump-bump. It has to go somewhere. I don’t know where it comes from. I don’t know where it goes.
Subway MapSubway Philosophy is about New York, culture, sex, publishing, memories, alcohol, or a combination of the above. Originally taken from drunken musings on the subway, it has evolved into something extraordinarily similar to most young blogs: which is to say, redundant, romantic, and woefully introspective.
Current Subway ReadingWhite Teeth