where did it go?

Sometimes I know that I want what I can't have. When I'm riding the subway, all I can think about is the lives of my fellow passengers, and I wish that I was doing the best in my own. Sometimes I hate myself. Sitting in those plastic yellow and orange seats that have seen a world of filth and pain somehow conects me to the millions that have sat there before me. Being underground makes me want to listen to Simon and Garfunkel. I secretly feel like I'm a part of this club, a cult comprised of the teeming mass of New Yorkers, stoic yet vulnerably soft inside their puffy northface jackets. All trying to get somewhere, all unhappy with their own personal here and now. That's what the whole city was based upon, change and getting ahead, so I guess it makes sense. Sometimes I feel like my life is a series of mental blocks. I just want to be in the presence of those eyes, in those arms, that make all the tears, the blood, the fear, the slow crushing emptiness of 4:13 a.m. turn into nothing. I want to laugh in the face if my failures, roll away from the fast coming train of my future, chrome and steel, the inevitably cold metal and death bearing crunch with the subsequent loss of consciousness. He doesn't make my world spin or inspire me to write, bend my thoughts into spirals that sparkle in the sunshine turn an entire month into a gold cloaked vacation, dreamy squares on paper blurring into each other. I want so bad to be enveloped in that kind of warmth again.