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Crying Black Soul's

125^th St.

His eyes canvassed the train exploring the many generic pastel faces of sprinkled color and displaced countenance.  Each face bearing its own destiny of trial, its own provision of circumstance, it's own charter of odyssey.  The many faces were a montage of color whose only purpose was known by the painter of life.

Existence...  The straphangers’ daily gathering for a collective purpose of destination, each one only concerned with the coursing their immediate length of this trek.  A metallic trail of man-made direction we all traverse daily and yet so few can describe the station stops that they blink past.  Train passengers are much like pawns on a chess board, rowed in private squares of privacy moving from place to place separated by imaginary lines of distinction, making it a capitol offense if breached. So close bodies warm each other when winter blows its hardest, and yet so far removed, that to enjoy that warmth is a capitol offense.  Oh the divinity of sin and its contradictions.

Eyes that meet but never offered to see, nods of hello and yet we remain uncertain greetings, gestures of acknowledgment but never of acceptance, bodies touching but always denying the pleasure of feeling.  The subway clamored its song in the chorus of motion, initiating a dance known only to its commuters. The swaying and rocking, balancing and repositioning from afar looks like a dance hall entranced by the orchestra, gilded only by the by-laws of a Metrocard.

From my neighboring passenger seated next to me I borrowed through stolen glances the news of the day, and seeing that the papers' herald had not changed since the last manufactured tragedy, I forced my thoughts back to the swell of faces that spoke of words with signals, each face distinguished, yet bland and without features; without features save the remnants of life in their eyes.

The eyes have always been the mediator, moderator and orator of man in his comedy of life, for they meet with secret rendezvous, peering long enough for speculation, but always too short for commitment.  Eyes are the recitals of tales and championed causes of self.  They harbor thought and provoke suggestion. Eyes can smile when the mouth betrays that same smile with a frown, windows of the soul indeed.  Windows panes of pain, washed clean through tears and perfectly reflected.

116^th St.

The conductor’s fragmented barely audible voice broadcasts the stop, ushering in a small stream of new eyes sampling its situation, while spilling into the subway car. The influence of the new commuters change as coffee welcoming milk and what was deep ebony now becomes transformed into spirited mocha.  Giving life an ecliptic sprinkle of knitted familiarity.  The static distinguishes itself with the chimes of the trains’ towncryer, announcing the trains’ readiness to depart.

Eyes of competitive confusion traced and evaluated the vacancies of seats and strategize the determination it would take to succeed. In this race there was no second place, only standing room only.  With this new set of eyes, came a blast of cold, advancing in the duel against the warmth, in the hopes of winning a temporary victory as the clumsy doors closed the arena.  What is cold to the occupant is warm enough for salvation to the outsider, and their faces warmly grinned with a lust for more.

Body heat...  And the bigger the body, the better the heat.  Unfortunately, I have the misfortune of being seated next to a woman that would forsake the comfort of warmth for the attention of a miniskirt much too high for seasoning.  The price for vanity is sometimes much greater than the cost of sensibility. We project our own dissatisfaction by the names of labels we forsake for the names of ourselves.  Fashion is an addiction from which there is no cure. We sometimes get so engrossed in what we aspire to be that we sometimes dismiss from the checklist who and what we actually are. “What we are” being the operative word, for what she was, was freezing her cheeks off. This jovial folly and this drunkenness of heat made my thoughts drift to a much more sober thought and that was the sacrifices women make on a daily basis.

Women face the trapping of man’s best-laid plans of control.  Man's manipulation of morality and virtue has been the shiny object waved before those unknowing women locked in the perpetual existence of relationships.  These particular female cults are willing to make compromising and sacrificing self and bear the condemnation for doing it. A coin toss with no heads or tails, with men calling the throw, proclaiming a winner and never letting the woman see the coin for validity of victory or defeat.  There she sat with her weave shrouding her head with the blackness of the grim reapers cloak; hair that held a straightness, her family’s’ gene pool most likely has never seen first the first mitosis.  The rouge and blush, which was to compliment life in her cheeks, only mocked it with the veracity of life’s drainage, and her nails were so comically long that she was no longer able to feel true life.   They were like talons always on the ready to repel anyone from getting to close. She was a crying black soul awaiting emancipation, but somewhat fearful of the realities and vulnerabilities freedom held.  The truth changes the color sometimes depending on the light.  She seemed proud of who she was, but ashamed with what she was.  In the silence of my thoughts I wept with her.  I wept for all the inconsistencies we all have waged her to obey for the price of acceptance.  I wept for the contradictory road signs we laid along the road of life’s journey.  Signs that offered promise, but never give direction or distance.

My attention was drawn magnetically to a couple that seemed to add color to an otherwise dreary drab of metallic silver background.  They sat wrapped in each other, soaking each other’s giggles while speaking in the language of  “the lover’s whisper”.  I listened intensely with a greedy ear only to resolve disappointment, embarrassed by my lack of understanding.  Their world ignored all practices of outsiders.  In their world nothing was forbidden or taboo, all that existed was their adoration and commitment towards each other and that was more than enough for them.  They were as if strangers learning each other anew.  It seemed to me that they understood the veracity of appreciating the moment, not the cause.  With them I could sense that they would leave no uncertain words or thoughts.  Their union was described in the simplest of ways.  It resonated and beamed in their private caresses, the softness of their kissing pecks. It was so absolute; little room was left for interpretation.  I nodded with satisfaction in knowing that for them although their time together was not theirs to command, the time together was to be cherished, for lovers may come and go, but memories steal their way into a person and are resurrected when you least expect it. 

Across from me sat a woman vividly colored in make up, so much to the point that she was quite removed from her identity and all that existed were logo’s and catchy advertisement phrases.  Although her eyes seem to beg for acceptance they received only lust.  Her painted face of pasty vanity gave her the appearance of lifelessness.  Her weave, eyeliner, base, silk wrapped nails, rouge and lipstick were cosmetic imprinted fantasies of wellness. I sat there and wondered what she really looked like once her costume of likeness was removed.  Ironically, next to this woman of absent of life sat a young man adorned in a kingdom of jewelry that imprinted a wealth of meaninglessness that only measured his displacement.  With defined movement he systematically shuffled and fingered the organization of his chained arrogance eyeing intermittently the curious spectators, enjoying the attention.  The two made a perfect couple… Vanity and Superficiality. The green-eyed monster mocking the meat it devours.

110^th St.

Distraction sometimes causes chaos when the observer is unaware.  And unaware was I when she entered the car…

Her qualities blinded all other particulars and caused me to question my motives of life itself.  I became that captivated.   For her I had not yet existed, but to me she was all that was and all that would ever be, and for the brief seconds that our eyes met, we shared a common space, a common vision and a common destiny or release.  We both understood the limit of the gaze and held accountable the time to remain staring.  Neither side wished to violate the other and yet it had to be understood that both sides wanted the violation, and yet not the vulnerability.

When our glance broke it seemed like a day in the life of eternity.  Who knows just how long we stood there.  Eye to eye…  Waiting and yet silently demanding…  I yearned for her attention once more.  I could leave no room for doubt.  I needed to experience that look of incitement to be sure that this was not mere recklessness. And as if we both were fated with miracle, did we meet once more. 

The kindness of her face was creased with a smile of invitation.  And her eyes started a pleasant conversation spoken in soft intimate tones of calm.  I silently agreed with her thoughts and responded appropriately with the raise of a mere eyebrow.  And there we stood conversing in silence, exchanging secrets and conveying appreciation.

86^th St.

I barely felt the brakes of the train motion its stop; I sat there held fast by doubt.  I thought as jeweler with the perfect diamond, was I to inspect and scrutinize this diamond in search of flaw, or was I to merely leave this magnificent gem there and live with the thought of perfection and fantasize never realizing disappointment?   She rose with certain desperation and lost in her eyes.  Who’s turn was it to move?  I lost count.  The commuters on board became the mischievous sprites of Doubt, Criticism, Fear and Rejection as they began chanting their spells making me their captor, betraying a potential fate for the price of my dignity.  She walked through the doors fighting the crowd, fighting her fears, fighting all in society that kept us apart and struggled a turn.  Wishes are dreams not yet chanced by fate.  But was this fate or melancholy?  Everything is far-fetched until it actually happens and then what was far-fetched becomes negligence.  Were we far-fetched in chancing fate?  Time keeps secrets like those securely locked.  I could only hope to know.  But I broke free from those who chanted against it and stepped from the train, a vehicle of journey and stepped onto the station, a platform of destiny and re-introduced myself to life.  Her.  And we cried no more.

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