She sits on the end of the couch, her knees drawn up and her feet perched on the edge of the couch, a blanket strewn across her lap. She licks the tip of her finger to turn the page of the heavy red book that is placed open on her left thigh. Her dark wavy hair falls over her shoulder as she is leaning to the left. The hair on her right is tucked gently behind her ear. She gasps, scoots low in her seat, pulls the blanket over her head and hides behind her book, her glasses peeking out from the top of the book. She starts to explain an incident with passion. She is fire. She is excitement. She is beautiful. She is classic and calm and clever and so enthusiastic it makes your heart melt. She is so invested and she cares so much. Her eyes are pure moonshine and you can fall so easily for her. You can be with her and time stands still. She is everything. She is a goddess and you just want to bask in her light.
The man sat on the low fence railing. Its windy and cold, he wears a black knit beanie pulled low over his eyebrows, a thick scarf wrapped up over his nose, a coat and puffy black gloves. He sits on the railing, pulling crumbs out of his pocket. He extends his hand to the squirrels and birds that have gathered around him. One bird flies overhead, swoops and lands on his arm. It drops its head into the mans open palm and pecks at the crumbs. The man smiles. He doesn’t have much, but he’s glad he can make some kind of a difference. He feels some kind of connection with theses park animals. Many people overlook them, accept them as part of the natural scenery and paying them no thought other than to steer clear if the animals venture too close. Most people see this man in the same light. So he thinks it best if he and the animals stick together. He comes to this spot regularly. The birds and the squirrels recognize him, they have formed a sort of friendship. They bring him twigs and bits of strings in an act of good faith. The man just likes having something to care for, that makes his days a little brighter.
She finds comfort in labels. She thinks the more she defines herself the easier it is to understand herself. She is fixated on understanding. Her mind is constantly pulling in information and trying to make sense of it. She needs to learn how to sift through all of the subtle cues constantly bombarding her psyche. Is she over-analyzing, assigning meaning where there is none? Or is she seeing social cues others are blind to? She can never tell if she is observing reality as it is or if she is projecting and creating her own reality regardless of the objective truth. It is a never ending cycle of questioning reality, questioning how well she truly knows anyone. Some times it is too much, she has so much unconscious stimulus pouring in she overloads. She searches for ways to shut down, tune out, make her world make sense again. Can she ever know reality, or is she only projecting?
She sits. Desperately trying to feel connected to someone. Anyone. She sits on the fringe of the main atrium at Grand Central Station. There are people walking all over. There are people sitting along the fringe, similar to her. She sits, trying to soak up the waves of energy that flow through the space. But she cannot seem to connect. She cannot plug in. She can’t. She is isolated. She is isolated in her own mind. In her won body. She longs to be a part of something. She longs to be absorbed by the energy. She longs to be pure energy and light. She longs not to feel so alone. She knows there are people that love her and cherish her. But she cannot feel it here. It is not enough. She’s too distant. Everything is chaos. She just wants to dissolve into nothingness. Life is hard and terrible and shitty and so fucking amazing she doesn’t know how to handle any of it. So she sits. In Grand Central Station. Watching. Wishing. Reaching. Imagining.
On the subway was a boy, and he is called a boy because he is immature and naive and a bit unknowingly privileged. He sat on the bench in his blue windbreaker, black pants, black loafers, and dark grey tweed sweater. He held a covered book in his lap. The girl, a stranger, with a normal sounding American sounding voice, somewhat stingy and unkempt hair, and stark white Reeboks, strikes up conversation about the boys book. He responds and she tells him that’s racist and he says its not. They get into more conversation. She is from Brazil. South East. The boy insists it’s the south and continues to show on the subway map behind him how southeast is still the south. She argues that the south east is its own region different from just the south. He continues to steam roll her with his “facts.” He is from Long Island. He looks like he is from Long Island. The girl is annoyed and has obviously come to the conclusion that he thinks he knows everything and she doesn’t want anything to do with him. She becomes resigned and an awkward silence falls. He tries to remedy it by doodling on a scrap piece of paper, then laughing at how he messed it up. She gets off at the next stop without looking back.
He sees the world in a slightly different shade than average society. He has removed several layers from the rose colored glasses, which allows him to always be one step ahead in the conversation. He understands the logic of the world’s systems. He knows how to play their games even when they don’t. He could take advantage if you wanted, but he chooses instead to poke at it and expose its weakness. He jests because he can see the more objective reality. He has a subtle confidence, gathering his fears and doubts and harnessing them to make himself better. He is complex and more than a simple string of letters and labels. He keeps you guessing, always offering new insights. He defies all judgements, able to both confirm and deny. He is the wind blowing over the ocean, creating crystal clear waves that wash gently over the sand.