The air seems nice today. Nice; like the doorman of this building. Nice fellow he was. A little black, I guess, but nice nonetheless. It blows into my eyes, this air, making them water. At this point, I might as well call it wind. Is it still called wind if we are going against the air? Now is not the time for technicalities, I figure. Let’s assume it’s the wind. The wind is trying its very best to straighten my posture. The wind is trying to be my mom. Her nagging voice is still lodged as a third personality in my brain, decades after her passing. In a way, I’m glad I’m keeping her alive in here.
‘Not anymore’, yells my second personality, deep from the crevices where I’d kept him hidden all these years. ‘Not anymore’, he cackles over and over. His echoing laughter is infectious. I give in with a chuckle. The laughter didn’t last for long though; the wind knocks the saliva out of my mouth & it goes dry. The wind does not seem nice anymore. The air was nice; the wind not so.
I’m beginning to enjoy feeling weightless here. Enjoy; like the time I first got to this country. All the lights, all the buildings, the feeling of achieving something no one back home managed. I enjoyed that feeling. The faces, the places, the looks, the nooks & crannies & old grannies. ‘Not the time to look for rhymes’, I hear his voice but I don’t listen. I go back to that feeling of weightlessness I felt on that first day here. That is pretty much the same I’m feeling at this moment. I’m glad I kept that feeling alive in me all these years.
‘Not anymore, idiot’, he yells. This time his voice is clearer. He is inching closer to the surface I feel. He might as well take control again for the primary driver of this engine just took the train off the rails. Trains. I liked trains, the slow ones. I liked sitting by the window, eating up slivers of sunlight in the winter, feeling my face vibrate against the grill, stretching my legs on the empty seat opposite to me. I loved those trains back home. Trains here are fast; really fast. Like reach-your-destination-faster-than-this-thought fast. But I really preferred the slow ones. I repeated it over & over: I don’t like it fast. Make it slow, really slow, make it stop. Let me get out onto the platform, Let me breathe in the air, let me stretch my legs. But no fast was all they wanted. Her voice kept nagging inside my head, the voices of the people back home through the telephone, the work, the wife. Fast was all they wanted. They expected it. They demanded it. I’m going really fast now, aren’t I?
“Yup”, came a unexpectedly calm, measured reply from him. I don’t feel him clamoring for control any more. Maybe we can finally drive this train together. Towards doom yes, but together. Not for long though. I feel him encompassing me in a long overdue embrace.
‘Tell me something’
‘Yes’
‘Why did you jump?’
‘Well, I…’
