the train stopped on the way home today


The train has suddenly stopped. Stopped in its tracks on the way home. I sit calmly amidst the tense frenzied air. I am always the peace in the middle of others’ chaos. I press my face against the cold glass, breath of fury condensing on the windowpane. Quiet fury. Euphoric fury. Wild contemplation. What if the train falls off its rails and I slowly watch as the ground reaches closer to the train window and I see as the cement road reaches out and shatters the glass and throws a fist into my nose so that the bones in my face break and the glass punctures my eyes out and my body crushes into a bloody mess in between the train and the road? I smile. I would fall out through this machine vessel, a bluejay soaring through the blue sky, and fall asleep as I touch the ground. Oh, pure emancipation. Sanguine liberation. Bloody fucking freedom. Bloody. Fucking. The fucking from behind as the train thrusts into death. And at the height of its fall, at the climax of its fall, at the highest note of the fat opera singer’s verse, I would reach orgasm. And that would truly be the purest end of all.

The fact that I can relate so clearly to this thought pattern is scary…

Zaid Ismail

Author, life coach, and mental health activist. We need to change the narrative from disorders, illnesses, and survival to accountability, understanding, and thriving.

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