Stop. The train stopped in the middle of the bridge today. Grey and brown dead city flank these dark and murky waters.

I pressed my nose to the glass and looked down, down past the optomistically blue rails that would never serve the purpose of holding a careening track-evading aluminum death-trap back from a slurping water maw. Morbid thoughts are pervasive when death is only a creaky plexiglassed door plus a hop, skip and a plummet away. I stared down at the deceptively sluggish looking river, covered in what I percieved to be crystallized benzene rings, or rather, to this date, what I have imagined them to look like, floating, seething, and pulsating in their movements on that skulking deadly river. It made me dizzy to get lost in the white undulating shapes half submerged in that green-black unknown depth and I wondered if a person were to plunge to their death in that frigid place, whether those sharp octogonal shapes would break their bones before icy water filled their lungs and pierced their bodies with needles killing cells one by one- a domino effect, and surely a very painful death if compounded with multiple fractures. These thoughts scattered like inconsistent waves of rioters when the train lurched back into motion. Will my classes be good today? I shivered and wondered how long my coffee would stay hot.


Mestasticizing globules of death
My father told me that my grandmother's MRI uncovered some "trouble spots" in her mouth. And all I can think of when I think of that word overused by society in an ironic attempt to turn it into something society pretends not to be, is this pulsating shiny blue-black mass that must be intrenched in my grandmother's body still, yawning a nebulous mucuosy squelching yawn and wiggling in anticipation with a hunger for rot, invasion, poisonous discipline, constriction and death. My grandmother said "I love you," to me today. She's scared. In turn, this terrifies me.

It is astounding how my family can be so full of the intention to protect, love and cherish, and yet, my grandmother is the last person of all to find out the results of her own MRI. How would you feel if everyone knew what was going on with your body before you did? It's the natural order with doctors perhaps, though I feel that everyone knows intrinsically when something is horribly wrong with them, but family members? How could this be more scarier to us than her?



  ¶ 2:03 AM