In Transition

The subway is empty. On either side are two black wormholes that take you to your next destination. White fluorescent lights mix with halogen ones to create a faded yellow glow which engulfs the station. A pipe is leaking somewhere; other than the never-ending buzz coming from the lights there is the drip-drip-drip sound of water. The white and black checkered tiles are old and faded. Several are broken and dirty, yet they still reflect some of the light. A dirty glossy look that is reminiscent of a glorified past. The advertisements of well-to-do corporations are hung on the walls in a perfectly straight line parallel to the floor. They have graffiti on them, one of the ladies has grown a permanent marker mustache. On the edge of the platform before the subway tracks are the yellow bumps that warn travelers not to fall into the tracks. There is a musty smell in the air.

As I step forward into this environment, the echo from my steps cut sharply into the buzz from the lights and the leaking pipe. I close the book I was reading and place my stuff on the bench, which has just been repainted a dull gray to cover up the graffiti. Finally aware of my surroundings, I get up and stretch, staring into the two black tunnels on either side of me that go to different places. They seem to go on forever. I feel comfortable stuck between two different worlds: the place I left and the place I'm going to. I’m in transition. My destination doesn't matter anymore; it’s what I'm doing now that counts. I'm removed from- everywhere. I’m waiting to go- somewhere.

Each thought changes with each drip: No one's here but I don't feel alone. I don't feel bad but I don't feel happy. What am I feeling? I'm neutral. Nothing seems to matter here. I don't care how I look or what I say. I don't care what time it is. I can do anything here while I wait. There is no shame, there is no gloating. There is nobody here that controls me, evaluating me, embarrassing me, pressuring me. Drip. Drip. Drip. As I think about school, history, math, chemistry—my thoughts drift into thinking about the two black tunnels, about the rhythmic drip-drip-drip sound about me. I feel my body tune in to the subway. There isn’t much to notice around me, so I notice everything. The red electronic signs hanging from the ceiling fluctuate, blinking on and off "$#sQ3#%td&@". Broken. Meaningless.

A train is coming. I hear it. It opens its doors and I step inside, and we head into one of the two black tunnels that go on forever, together.