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  • Writer's pictureTuananh


October 3, 2014

Echoing into the devout chambers of arches were the melancholic screeching that line the stations'€™ edges, footsteps creeping against the yellow markings full of anticipation as the calm comes to a stop. Touch down, and I could feel my heart racing, urging, hoping, sensing, and falling into that familiar dream once again. Her adorable hands unruffled me. The summer air welcoming its cool successor without further "adieu"€, and definitely in contrast to the hyper-corrected ado is noted. The A-train is calm tonight, unlike the many nights I'€™ve shared with this same track – into my dreams I'€™ve yet to fall. Passing Kingston, Nostrand, Lafayette, and Bergen, it was great to meet some old friends on this subway ride home.

Strolling and rolling against the brownstones on 8th, her hair sways against my shoulder as I am touched by her charm. The steps of "€œFive Seventy Three"€ guided me into a short alley way that hid a message, which lay secretly on a wheeled messenger's basket for me to discover. Step by step, the twinkling lights that lined the ceiling'€™s edge, the brave outcomes that hung the walls and covered the wooden planks, the nudist and her lover embellished in their own sarcastic narcissism. These are the creatures that awake us from below, the ones that we mind, the ones that we battle, and the ones that we strike with fear.

Religion not only blinds but deafens. Lost my way into what now embodied the souls of the innocent that left us on that empty September morning. The inverted dark falls that hummed their names across its edges, it was the stories they'd left behind and the memories instilled within us all to learn from. In this faithless world where even God finds so much of his flock lost in the garments that shroud the evils of man and his pathetic brotherhood. Erected above all stood the marque of freedom, towering above the skyline as it casted its shadow deep into every New Yorker, especially this one. I feel the rambling of my nerves against my fingertips as I triggered the shutter, a familiar and sincere clasp that metamorphically can superimpose its definition into something much more morbid and unforgiving. I was amongst my demons and in the comfort of three thousand angels. Shutter closed. Silence. Deafening silence. Prayer. A blinded prayer that I whispered into my confession.


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