| MANY ARE CALLED // Mariko Nagai |
[Monday
June 30th, 2008] |
Underneath this city, there is another city, one more modern, more
recent in its origin. Here, in these dark tunnels where pomegranates
fall, all these thoughts fly around like moths, lured by light, by sweet
smell of decay, trapping themselves by their own free choice in the
confined space of their making: It can’t already be June, it can’t
already be Monday, that’s what they say, that’s what people keep
muttering to themselves this morning as they cradle the last of the
sleep in their coffee cups, for the precious moments in which they
huddle in themselves before they must sign off their lives to something
they don’t believe in, to something they think they cannot escape
from. As they rock in the rhythm of the train, someone thinks, A moth
in spider’s nest, though she does not see the intricate weaving of the
thin threads, ready to untangle between our fingers, snapping the
threads. But it’s like this: It’s already June, I’m already 28 and I
haven’t done anything, many are talking, comforting us in these
minutes of our lives when we descend down to darkness, to darkness
so dark that we are helpless, our bodies swaying left to right, left to
right as if we’re rocking in prayer, but we are not praying. We’re boxed
in the freight, we’re boxed in a subway car, this is the death train, but
unlike them, forced away from their homes because of blood, we
chose this train, we chose to be on it, we are boxed in, we’re as
helpless, we tell ourselves, positioning ourselves to the gravity, the
pull of the train. Our highest dreams thrown out like our last night’s
dinner, a woman’s dream flies past, landing silently on the subway
floor like the last note of an aria, I wish someone loved me, I wish He
loved me, a thought so light it floats quietly down, hovers an inch
or two above the floor, then lands, landing as someone steps on it. I wish
somebody loved me, but I’m not pretty enough, I’m not smart enough,
she closes her thoughts from us, she looks down to the book on her
lap, the thick one, heavy like her sadness, but she doesn’t stop her
reading, the thick book stays where it is, the woman, though, reads so
little, doesn’t really read, just daydreams, her hopes going where
we are going, she stays where she is, on the seat across. We are all
going somewhere we have to each day, pulled by the invisible strings,
and we say, I can go no other place, this is where I belong. No, we go
to places only if we must, but must is a habit, after all, we can go
anywhere as long as we let ourselves, anywhere we want to, only if we
want to, she can stretch her arms as if in flight, and leave, leave this
train, this city…only if she wants to. We think there’s no way out, our
lives guided by some invisible lines only fate has right to hold, right to
control. But we are closer to grace, we are closer to where we were
before we were born, before we forgot the songs, before we forgot the
promises, we are closer to grace in the darkness of our own making,
we are not of time—only if we let it, only if we let the watch unshackle
us, but we forget, as we have forgotten, as soon as we open our eyes.
Many are called and many do not hear.
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