Your hell, your life..

With every passing day, there is despair. A warring within oneself, between the lure of security, flawed, or none at all. At the same ring, every morning, pleasant dreams or incessant nightmares let go, yet linger somewhere in the corners. Not always is there gladness in leaving the demons behind, to the darkness. For at times, sunlight is harsh and hides no flaws. Perhaps it is better to dream of disturbing ideas. They seem so much more predictable.

Sitting in those indistinguishable compartments, rocking back and forth, in a soothing yet not entirely comfortable position, you wonder at where you are. looking around, into faces of varying ages, colour, ethnicity, you wonder: how different are they from you? Some came with hopes of new lives, and yet others to escape tyranny, or all that they left behind. You wonder which category you belong to.

A fleeting look, catching a stranger's eye, exchanged polite smiles, mumbled apologies and rarely a "good morning," and a connection is made. That face is burned into your memory, that voice forgotten. The name, you never knew at all, nor will you now. That's what binds you to them, and them to you. The possibility that they are also nameless, numbered identities in this country so praised for it's open arms and capitalist regime. A country whose flaws are hidden behind colourful banners of fast food joints and brilliant displays of money they don't have.

You still worry. A longer than necessary look from a cop, a glint of, perhaps, imagined suspicion, and you think twice. Is it something you are doing? Then your stop arrives, and you disappear into the throngs of first, second, third, Nth generation Americans, and your only friends in the city. You wear clothes that are so common, it looks forced. Maybe the complexion, the curve of your nose makes you stand out, in those factory produced, mass manufactured designer clothes.

Life, you live as the others live theirs. A mix of cultures. In the end, you wonder where you really come from. Time passes and borders blur. Your English turns less refined. All those words you crammed through sleepless nights are pushed into oblivion. Smile at the irony. Your language was more fluent and refined when you used it as a non-primary means of communication. It was practice, to polish the grammar, when your parents and friends spoke in native tongues. Somehow, that use seemed more natural before it became your only link to millions of people washing up on this country's shores.

Whatever your reason, you came, gaped at the skyscrapers, the bright lights, the blatant misuse and wastage of energy and money, distanced yourself from everyone claiming lack of time, and now, the utter despair that grips you each morning forces you to continue the act that you put on, that you call your life. Because now, there are strings attached: most that you attached by yourself.

Because it is your life now.