The train passenger in the seat below where I'm standing and gripping the ceiling bar is laughing at a show that's playing on his iPhone. How nice for him to have made a space for leisure. The passenger to my left is finishing a puzzle from the morning paper, occupying both hands, sacrificing an anchor. My eardrum (the right) hurts from last hour's work: on the phone, getting nowhere, burning time, so I'm neither in a laughing mood nor would I happily engage in problem solving. In my rush to leave, I left my New Yorker at work.
In that same issue, I came across an interesting concept this morning. One employed by elite, though unconventional, Hollywood psychiatrists. Something by the name of Cosmic Rage. It advises that you silently scream in the face of subjects troublesome. Something along the lines of "FUCK YOU, BRING IT ON."
It works, I think.
Today, once again, I was given another reminder of last August's awful discoveries, and the dark dark months that followed. A name, an uncommon one, has plagued me since; a friend eerily and correctly commented that I seem to summon them. Every time I see one, I agonize for hours, it brings me such unhappiness. In remembering the article after boarding the subway, I looked into my reflection in the window against the dark tunnel of the East River, and pictured the person, the choices, the pain, the betrayal. FUCK YOU, BRING IT ON. It was very loud in my head, and I felt myself regaining some ground. It felt nice. Healing.
Only I have a slight fear that my new Cosmic Rage will lead me to punch the next undeserving person bearing that name in the teeth and that it will be in a business setting. Hey, whatever it takes.
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