Vine-Me

Vine is a writing experiment I'm currently pushing myself to do for the greater good of my writing. This blog, with your apologies, understanding, and input, with help me with my project. The Vine is a long tendril holding many berry clusters. That is my idea for this project. I started with myself for the focus of this writing piece in the Vine project.

It was a quiet, even aloof, Friday evening for me. This caused considerable consernation in that it broke the drunken, ego-pandering routine of redundant familiarity. I left work, slugged down some quick cold ones at the closest decent bar, blathered enough to register inebriation, and in my departure I sweated under intense summertime heat while winding between the towering buildings that lined the roads to the public transportation station. Now, very alone in my thoughts and sensory dullness, I found myself engulfed into a tidal wash of human movement. 4:30 on a Friday afternoon, on the rail line in the city, meant swarms of folks of all stripes heading the Hell outta where ever the were just working, suffering, or loitering.
I slap my transportation passcard against the reader on the gates and merge through the barrier, moving into the awaiting crowd milling on the train platform. I see workers of all gradients of occupations, old folks, wheelchair-bound persons, visually impaired people sweeping canes in exploratory patterns, college students, troublemakers, withdrawn characters beaten until their faces can only grimace pain...and I join their midst. My appearance exudes professionalism, contemporary clothing, Friday relaxed office dress, a shoulder bag containing essentials, beer-tainted breath, searching eyes, hidden hurt. The train arrives and engulfs most of us waiting while dispensing only a few passengers.
We cling to this lateral forward motion in echoes of forced movement against our bodies; all present occupants of this train, patiently accepting our cramped confinement on missions to various destinations; this closeness to one another is not personal, or even preferred, but we know it to be necessary for our passage elsewhere.
I don't like you, stinky breath guy, nor do I like loud-talker wig-wearing woman, nor space hogger, weird chin guy or fatty that has an odd porportional shape. I dislike the looming seated woman who can't quit staring at me with laser eyes that reflect no emotion and a face of stone to match that disattachment. I'm turned off by the girl whose hairline starts halfway back on her skull, yet she portends superiority or perceived attractiveness by her conceited display of her styling.
I'm edgy about the various jokers and oddballs with backpacks--who knows what those packs contain?--and the window reflections that become a hall of mirrors forces me to understand that I, too, am being judged, sized up, analyzed, social rejected and gauged by strangers glancing from multiple vector angles on the glass, and furthermore their scrutiny is beyond my ability to confront, engage, or return. I sink into the hopeful anonymity of us all: people, travelers, folks, still alive for this moment, yet overall gossamer mortals.
My emotions stir, and guilt weighs on my initial judgements of the collective of fellow riders; I am only human.