People on Trains

The train lurches forward again as I fumble with my mascara in the small, ironically inaccessible handicapped restroom. I over analyze my personal dependence on this item, mascara, clutching to it like the very clutch purse in which it is carried. My personal beauty crutches. The bottle in which length and volume can lead to an increase in self esteem and feeling like at any moment you could be mistaken for a celebrity.

On the train, I desire even more strongly to write something.

A book.

A letter.

A word.

A life.

Something. Something someone important wants to read. What constitutes a life worth reading about? What does that even mean? If only I could unlock life’s meaning, surely it lies in the pursuit of my passions.
A path I am quickly working to meander down. Or run down. Or sprint. Whichever I am feeling the energy for at the given moment.

I overhear a girl behind me talking about her internship.

In front of me and to my right, a little lady, I would guess to be 5 or 6 years old, keeps peeking her head back at me and staring. She is one of the many children that have stared me down on this train (the other four told me that in all my skinny whiteness, I looked like latina Jennifer Lopez). Why are they staring? Do they want my approval? Do their parents not take notice? Are they observing me as a fellow female, looking to me for an example? Hopefully they don’t follow my anti-trend fashion trends. Curiousity? Am I a strange looking human? Is this a sign I should be taking care of kids? Are they drawn to me like a magnet? My dad tells me not to believe in signs.
That’s what brought me to apply to a nannying job recently, maybe I really am supposed to work with kids. The job looked compatible on paper, a new living opportunity, a cool town, two kids and not too many hours, but in person….the puzzle pieces were not fitting together. It was all moving too fast for me. So, in the pursuit of movement, I am putting some things on hold.

In the fray.

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