I’m standing on the platform at Ikoma station. The next train is not mine; it’s a local, the one I need is a semi-express—green, not blue. A MIDI track from Guardian Legend streams into my ears. I scratch my pen across the surface of a ruled page within my beaten and disheveled pocket notebook. Its cover is falling off and the staples that bind it have lost their grip on the pages within. I have torn most of the them from their companions, which has left them to hang precariously from their edges. My serif scrawl fills the page with word after word after word, yet to what end?
What does the above have to do with anything, especially since my train has already come and I have already finished the day I began writing this in, and am now on a different train, a different commute; to work, not from it. Different, yes, yet still the same. Different train, yes, but same route and time and paint job and interior. Different passengers, yet same archetypes, same fashion, same disinterest in everything but the gadgets held in their hands. And I?
I look around and observe, let my mind wander through thoughts that may hold no truth, and do not engage with anything but my pen and paper. Is what I am doing any better? Perhaps I shouldn’t try to quantify worth of something over something else, but somehow I find my blinders to be more worth my time than flicking through digital screens of abstractions, which, contrarily, is what I hope someone unknown will do with this. Though I hope their finger will linger a moment before flicking or clicking on. Would I linger to read these words?
What newness do they bring to someone who lives in a world where nothing new exists, where everything can be referenced, where everything is a reminder of something else? This reality is why I try to disconnect myself as much as possible from society, so that what enters my mind is unaccompanied and only found its way there because it happened on by. The naive artist.
Unfortunately, I am already infected with the culture I wish to detach from, and the ho-hum of a scheduled life. And though I struggle against the chains I’ve wrapped around myself, perhaps I have even untangled my legs or a hand, I find myself, yet again, riding past the same jumble of concrete rectangles, and mess of power lines dangling in the air. A different Tuesday that will eventually find me with perhaps another MIDI track, this time from Mega Man 3, streaming into my ears, and waiting on the platform at Ikoma station for my train. The green one, not the blue.