I sit crouched against the cold tile wall waiting for the subway. I see its lights shine as it barrels through the tunnel towards me. The thoughts of jumping still echo in my head. But my legs have lost their will. Perhaps it is the meds finally beginning to work. Or perhaps it is the fact that I've been crying for two days and have no energy left for jumping lest anything else.
The train thunders into the station. I soak up the black soot it kicks up from the track beneath. It is the dust of cremation. It is a veil to hide me, to shield me away from all that aches, all that drives a wedge between what was and what is.
There is a sacredness to this moment. I face death here in this subway station. Here on these tracks. In the eyes of the oncoming train. And I face myself. Every ounce of pain that makes me want to jump and that small spark of hope that still dwells somewhere within my soul. The spark that presses my legs back against the cold tiled wall until the train comes to a stop in front of me. The spark that carries me through each train ride, each moment, each day.
I sit on the floor in the hallway. The waiting room is full. He's going to ask me how I am. What's there to say? I am weary. Weary of this life. Weary of this story. Longing for authenticity. To see and be seen. To see a purpose for this futile existence.
"How are you?" he will ask.
"Fine," I will say. "Just fine."