Prayer from the SF-bound Caltrain at 15:12 in early August

There’s a sort of listlessness when you exist between lives. I guess you can only live life in one of two states: content with eternity, or bracing for a change that sweeps over you like a lazy, salty tide. You can talk to permanent fixtures of the universe—champions of their own unique set of mannerisms & affectations, or if you’re unlucky (as I am) you’re talking to ghosts, just waiting for the last anything (everything).

Perhaps it’s the presence of disorientation that allows me to explore. I wonder how different that really makes me, anyway. The weeks build upon each other, and the sins of monotony, of convenience, of routine, become unbearable temptations. The air ceases to carry that unfamiliar electricity.
The roads cease to branch
It’s a game of how long you can pretend to embrace the frightening beauty of chance,

Riding on the Caltrain enumerates the untraveled possibilities of my former voyeurism.

Questions of “what if” replaced by “why not”. Yet their vapor trails cast a shadow of phony, constructed illusions. Of what it was actually like to toss caution to the wind and venture to the Hillsdale stop and visit the racetrack. These un-lived carcasses of imagination hurt the most. As if their vacuous lies actualize their emptiness deep in your gut. It teases you with the prospect of making up for missed time. What a sorry trap.