tabula rasa

"tabula rasa"

the words of the bumper sticker caught my eye like a nail on a wool sweater. black against white, a neon "eat at Joe's" hung incongruous in the middle of a deserted highway.

"tabula rasa"

the image was already fading as the clatter of the train intruded on the station, a mother's insistent tug against the toy-store captivation of a small child.

"tabula rasa"

it was lost as I ran, forgotten behind me. yesterday's news.

the train ensnared my attention. more specifically, it's inhabitants did. there was something almost careless about it. reckless in its way. two people sat at my feet, congenial, talking like old friends. opposite me, a man lay strewn across a seat as if watching Monday-night football.

something had broken down. order had been lost. that thin guise we hold up to the world. that "I've got my shit together" sheen of cool... all lost to the commissary of experience. given up to weariness or alcohol, there was a tacit partnership, an unwritten compact, that at 2am on the CTA: it was all good to be yourself.

the people at my feet laughed. the man, sprawled, nodded in time to the uncertain beat of the train. a couple in front of me flirted like it was their first date. two others huddled together, supporting each other in sleep.

"tabula rasa"

we all get another chance in the small hours.