Hobby Trains and more

Hobby Trains

Yelling at trains is not a hobby one chooses. I watched silently as a young man screeched at a passing train. The train hurled by never acknowledging his cries. The steel rattled on with a chaotic indifference. The train had a direction and destination unlike our youth who was stuck howling in the night. He flailed about, his cracked voice held so much anger; anger that will become sadness and when he is much older turn to bitterness. He screamed at shadows, an invisible hand had pushed him to the brink, some abstract force only he could see. It was an artless performance, his anger lacked depth. As the train rolled by he was jolted from his trance and silence fell across his sullen face. This sudden vulnerability didn't last and he continued to bash his head against the wall. Nothing was going to save him, he had to live with this unabashed anger; he had to live with chasing ghosts. Lost as he was yelling at trains sure can pass the time. 

Last Belch

A loud belch echoed past me under the overpass. It mocked everything decent in the city as it clung to its concrete. It came from a vagrant stammering home, his organs were a slowly decaying stew. He spoke in tongues to the city, his belching was a pause of reflection in his ongoing conversation with the concrete jungle. He flailed about telling stories to the city, the only one who listened. Unbeknownst to our modern day story teller he was rotting from the inside. A mad hatter, a renegade of the street, a belching behemoth. The city with her wildness takes no prisoners and drives men mad, this wretched gabber became another cog in the machine. I gave him a nod as he screeched past, lost in his own madness. His antisocial eyes quivered at the sight of me and he let out one last belch after which he proceeded to cackle away without a second guess. Surely, I thought he would find some crack in the earth to crawl into and die, for society has no use for such a creature. At least he may find some peace in death. 

Born a beast 

They tell me that I'm a beast but I have no claws or sharp teeth. No fur coat or infallible instincts. What do they mean by beast? Hell, what do I care. I spoil the order of things, they are supposed to go a certain way and I lack the wherewithal to memorize the script to go along with the show. Don't remind them of how much they share with me, it terrifies them. I stand alone, with my heart on my sleeve, my soul intact and a grin on my face that is hard to predict what I'm thinking. They scoff and tell me I have nothing to grin about, that I'm too vulgar. I don't want to fit in, it costs too much. I don't want to be so terribly afraid to be called a beast, I think it's worse to be just another man.