JKönig
spanish harlem incident
I see them all the time, everywhere—standing on train platforms, in airports, at bus depots—waiting, always waiting. I find myself wondering Who are these people? What are they waiting for? Where are they going? It seems odd that these people have lives completely unrelated to my own. At night they’ll go home to a house or an apartment I’ll never see. They’ll shop at stores I’ve never been to and listen to music I’ve never heard. I’ll never talk to these people, never learn about their hobbies or how they make their living, I’ll never know how they met their spouse, or what they thought when Obama was elected. Are they happy? Are they lonely?
Do they ever look at me and have these same thoughts?
And then the train leaves, or I board the airplane, or they clamber onto the bus and they’re gone. Gone to their own lives and their own thoughts. Gone like they were never ever there. Gone like chalk in the rain.
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