The gap between the 5:30 morning train and the 6:30 morning train is vast. much wider than an hours difference. There is a different movie playing-with different characters, a different setting,a different plot. In one morning's ride, I become... stronger, while riding shoulder to weary shoulder with the working class.
The working class. Those on their feet at dawn and remaining so until dusk. Our faces are a mix of grogginess and understanding when we lock eyes. I am not afraid of the men on the corner or the woman talking loudly to herself and her imaginary third party...because in some strange way, this hidden hour becomes the golden hour-one in which shared pain, and labor, and loss, have brought us all a secret sense of kinship. A kinship not found on the 6:30 Starbucks train.
2 comments:
hey, i recognize that wallet.
i like the glimpse into your morning commute.
if only i could look at my commute that way.
instead of being observant and introspecitve,
you can find me screaming at drivers
who never cease to push my buttons.
ughh.
hey, are you going to retro-post
some of your older hilaratarian writings?
and how 'bout some of those Jessi-drawings?
you must!
check out the Jessi-drawing-like stick figure
that Brac drew for me once.
it's part of my latest blog entry.
see you around.
Good God, that's so good it sings.
Love the photo, too :)
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