At night, I slip down the stairs into the oppressive underground world of convenient, hurried transportation. I slide my magic card, allow the metal bars to momentarily, almost seductively, slide down my thighs and brush against my behind. I follow the cryptic signs to find the right train and wait, absorbing the smell of old urine, deteriorating iron and desperation. I wait for the breeze, the whoosh of movement, preceding the train and watch as up to 9 long, heavy cars fly by and leave me feeling woozy, dizzy with observing the speed and momentum. The doors open and my mind is consumed with one thought: “Is this how oxygen and carbon dioxide feel being loaded and unloaded from hemoglobin?” The almost instantaneous exchange of people and immediate pulse of the train to the next depot feels like a macro version of red blood cells in the circulatory system. When I finally reach my destination, after submerging myself in whatever reading material I’ve brought as an effective way to avoid the awkward eye contact because the train is devoid of any visual stimulation except each other, I’m exchanged yet again and released into the flow of humans rushing to find the easiest path OUT. Suddenly we’re a fluid mass, powerful and resourceful in finding the cracks and weaknesses of the system preventing us from finding the surface. With a purposeful stride, I quickly traverse the few houses to reach the door my key fits, slide into the apartment and begin restoring my sense of self. Through cooking and music, I remember my individuality. Fatigue quickly wins the consciousness battle and as I begin my anti-linear sleep routine, the subway intermittently rumbles beneath the apartment, coaxing a different type of uneasy relaxation.
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