As I sit on the train back, I close my eyes and let the sunshine warm my eyelids. The sun filters in and out, peeking out behind the tall buildings we pass as the train rushes by. If I listen closely, I can hear so much — the screech of the train against the tracks, light conversations happening between its passengers, the air conditioning, and music playing somewhere in the distance. I feel the hard seat beneath me, the cold pole against my leg. I feel the weight of the bag in my hand, my phone in the other. I begin to pray.
Hey God. It’s been a while since I’ve talked to you, and I’m sorry about that. I know you’re not mad, but it’s been so long that I feel like an apology is due. I’ve been disappointed in myself lately, and I don’t know if that’s because I should be or if I’m being harsh. I don’t show myself a lot of compassion to begin with but I’m not sure I deserve any. Dear Lord, how I have missed your undying love. The comfort that comes with knowing I will be loved no matter what, even in light of the way I act. I wish I could show that same love to myself. I spent the day alone in the city today. All day, I was just so mad at myself. I hate the way I look at people, and the way they look at me. I hate the way I’m selfish. I hate the way I wish I didn’t exist. I hate the way I rush through museums, and can’t appreciate art. I hate that everything I do is for show. I hate that I’m not real. I hate the way I feel when I’m in my body.
The train comes to a screeching halt, the automated speaker telling its passengers that we’ve arrived at the Noyes station. This is my stop.
