Hop a Train

Claustrophobia is very real these days, while I sit in my classes hearing the same people talk around me and to me. It's the same thing, every day, even if it's about a new bit of drama that has occurred in the time between we parted and the time we met each other again. The same classes with the same people, every day, hearing information picked to pieces, similar emotions explained again, opinions stated with a familiar resonance.

I can't stand it anymore. It's driving me insane, like the scratches on a CD in a song that you know all the words to. Skip skip skip skip skip, repeat repeat repeat repeat repeat. What did you say? Skip skip skip, oh, ok. The same.

You can say I'm angry. I think I'd agree. I can't write anymore, at least not how I want to. It's not like painting now. It has to make sense. You can put a blob on a page and call it art, and some poor sap somewhere would buy it without question. It's easy to fool people with pictures. With English, or German, or Italian, or any other clicking, spitting, sticking sound, it takes a different type of talent. I've lost it, just like I've lost my will to be content, and just like I've lost all patience.

Heck, I've lost so much of everything that I hurt other people while I scramble to keep what I've gained. I don't know if what I've gained is worth keeping, either. So here I am. Here we are.

The words I say don't make sense, do they? I don't think they do.

I have to get out of here. I would go to a place where there isn't repeats that I can notice, repeats that don't renew over night. I would hop a train in the most humid of places, with sticky clothes and no real need to worry about how you smell, because everyone else smells bad too. I would get on that train with a backpack full of water, some clothes, paper, pencils, pens, paint, and I would go to the very end of the tracks. When I would arrive, I would get off that train and walk until no one could ever find me ever again. I would paint. I would write. I would draw. I would live the life of a hermit, which isn't a bad life if you really think about it.

I would settle hopping a train in India, South America, anywhere in Africa or Southeast Asia. I would go so far that even I would forget where I am and where I came from.

And when I got tired of that, I would hop a train again, then come back and maybe dabble in the social arts again, but those arts, like talking and partying and other boring things, are so draining and exhausting that I would probably end up leaving again.

So I think I'll just hop a train and just not come back. How does that sound?