Thoughts On The Train
She had a dream that appeared in the quality of those old homemade childhood movies lounging by the pool. Overexposed, slightly grainy and tinted blue by the reflection of the over-chlorinated water. Voices like echoes.
She wasn't in a dream now. Somehow she always felt spurred by creativity whenever riding on the subway. Maybe the subway was her muse. Maybe the shaky, jerky movements of the train car shook the inspiration out of her. She smirked. Ironic, wasn't it. After all those times of locking herself in her room, staring at the empty screen, the empty notebook, the empty white space, willing herself to write. And here she was, scrawling ineligible words onto an Orange Post-It note dug out from the bottom of her bag.
She almost felt proud. How bohemian, she snarked. Writing her thoughts down, using post-its, sitting in subways. And then she almost missed her stop and got on the wrong platform, watching the subway rumbling away with her dignity.
She wasn't in a dream now. Somehow she always felt spurred by creativity whenever riding on the subway. Maybe the subway was her muse. Maybe the shaky, jerky movements of the train car shook the inspiration out of her. She smirked. Ironic, wasn't it. After all those times of locking herself in her room, staring at the empty screen, the empty notebook, the empty white space, willing herself to write. And here she was, scrawling ineligible words onto an Orange Post-It note dug out from the bottom of her bag.
She almost felt proud. How bohemian, she snarked. Writing her thoughts down, using post-its, sitting in subways. And then she almost missed her stop and got on the wrong platform, watching the subway rumbling away with her dignity.
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