Today I was on the A train heading uptown and I was thinking about what it would be like if someone blew my head off with a gun.
The train was crammed, filled out, the guy next to me was wearing cologne that smelled like it was bought out of a store with fluorescent lighting. Everyone was layered to high heavens because December is here and apparently that means 75 mph winds and 30 degrees. Everyone stared miserably at the floor as the train rocked and jerked back and forth, no one spoke, everyone's faces washed with a zoned out sort of mediocre thought process that touched lightly on what they had to get done this week.
And I thought about what would happen if some asshole just stood up and said ALRIGHT EVERYONE GET THE FUCK DOWN or something like that, Pelham 123 style, and decided to start waving a gun around. I pinpointed out the females on the train who looked like they would be the ones erupting the stock screams of terror, the ones that would feebly try to protect their children, and the calm, silent ones that would eventually get their brains splattered on the walls because they tried to be a hero.
And then there was me.
I thought about what if, for no particular reason at all, the crazy asshole just decided to go balls to the wall and "prove his point" by killing me.
What would happen the moment after I died?
It was sort of humbling to think about the fact that everyone would probably be silent, look at the remains of my exploded head, and then the train would stop, the terrorized people would get off, and then everyone would just move on with their lives. They would still go to work, they would make their phone calls, pick up their laundry, everything as normal.
Is that because this city cannot stop for anyone?
Or is that become we are all a little inconsequential at the end of the day?
Or maybe I'm just coming down from the drugs and getting that unfortunate dark side effect of introspectively and emotionally bleeding out?
Will an egg roll make everything better? Yes? Alright.
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