Sunshine and lollipops

Sometimes I wonder how my brother does it. How he can live, having picked up dead, burning bodies from the rubble of war. How tense he seems even with his easy pace. He thrives on pretty girls and gourmet food, never skimping for less, always for the better.

I grind my teeth on wasabi peas, relishing the intense pain of a nasal burn one particular pea flares up. It comes and goes within 3 seconds. At the least, it distracts me from the inner pain that stems from fear, want, disappointment, and the darker bloom of thoughts of wishing to end this prickling of tears that threatens to spill onto my cheeks while people carefully watch for me as they exit the elevators. Or they completely disregard me. No matter.

My back is sore, aching on my left shoulder bone, blossoming around my neck and lower back. I am in pain. I think I'm more in pain because of the infatuation. I learned what I want from a guy and it's integrity. It's the drive to do more, do better. And it's a wonderful, terrible thing.

I am on the subway platform, rushing to catch the V at 5:20...I am late leaving the office. I remember feeling vaguely displeased for being in the front car as I'd have to take a long walk to the other end of the platform at my station. I remember thinking that a small gap at the door may not have made it a secure place to lean on. But I bury my head in my WoW raid strategy guides and meticulously figure out my role. The train rolls into Northern Blvd. A violent blow to my back rouses me up and I make a conscious effort to hear the insistent screeching, plastic shards flying, female conductor yelling with catching breaths and the gasps of the passengers. Me with my moods flashing from annoyance, to awareness, to gauging the situation in seconds and feeling my heart leap. Someone jumped in front of the train. The body is in the conductor's booth. There is a gap to look in the booth. Look away from booth, catch breath, cover mouth from rising smoke and potential burning flesh, just don't look at the body, look at anyone else' face to confirm the horrid limpness of the body and pray the conductor is fine. She's radioing it in, to turn off the power, raised voice, fighting panic and disgust.

As I murmur my excuse me walking to the back of the car, I wonder why the other people wish to have the image of a dead body embedded in their brains. There's an open door and I hop out, walking fast, looking through the windows at curious eyes, faces, mouths open. I'm glad for their ignorance.

The walk home is a daze. I observe my cold hands, the slight tremors, the fuzziness of my surroundings. I desperately want a hug or a hand to soothe away the dull pains of my back. I call a couple of friends, sit at my chair, looking, nothing, feeling nothing.

Getaway

My chest is heavy with an upheaval of worry and disappointment, some self-berating swirling, aerating the mixture. I pace in circles, mentally trying to untwine this procedure of figuring out who is the person to prod to action. I'm referring to my high school reunion which is just...something, I cannot even think of the word. This mystery word inspires the want for a catartic release: soothing tears (temporary) or scarring myself (permanent). I think I should go with the tears.

There is so much I want to write but this duty is clouding my vision.