I Am the F Train

If gorilla teeth could be genetically sampled for the substance of their intensity it would reveal an evolutionary code which unlocks the secrets of my own stoic expression.

I am Michelangelo’s statue only slightly animated by the fractals in the breath of life. I am jack’s ruptured spleen.

I am the F train at 3 am in the rain. I am hope incarnate, rolled into a cannoli and served on a bed of hummus.

Nothing fits. Nothing rests. No one knows me any better or worse than myself. I’m learning as I go. Every moment, every syllable, is a discovery.

I am an essay with no thesis. A puzzle with no borders. I am an accentuated pronoun scaling the side of a dangling participle from the cliff of a run-on life sentence for criminal perjury.

Santa’s slay couldn’t reach my house in a million Christmas Eve’s with a dozen backup Rudolphs.

Don’t be the first to judge, but don’t waste the chance either. The last is just a follower. There are no consolation prizes given at the end of life award ceremony. You either have a plan, and you are judged against it, or you have none, and you prepare for the permutation of judgement as frequent as the appearance of doubt.

There is no end to uncertainty. No relief from self-loathing for the introspection addict. If you liked what you saw you still wouldn’t stop looking. Get comfortable. You’re the only one in that theater. No one else wants the seats in the back of your mind. Enjoy the show.

Instead, you branch out and find new words to express disappointment in the unsatisfied life. The bumps and bruises of strangers are only visible in the reflection of my own smooth surface — lying between the dents, scratches and cracks of a lifetime of serendipitous celebration.

I am not responsible for my own happiness, but I claim to be. I am not to be credited for the joy of my life, but I take it anyway. The F train is a bitch, and I’m tired of waiting.

I am not the F train. I am the pouring rain.