Where The Trains Meet

Benjamin:

–William Galberth once wrote, Humanity will inevitably fall into a pandemic of idiocy.” Galberth was also a cynic. He and I differ in that opinion because in his melancholic point of view, the word inevitable most clearly means, certain, and while this is, of course— the dictionary rendition. I regard things differently, in my perception, which inevitably means high probability. Modern writers strive to express their innermost opinions in a literary fashion to extend their pessimism to the world. Galberths pessimism stems from his loss of love, mental illness, and infertility–

–Isnt the point of writing to express yourself artistically,– Samantha Cooley asked. I smile and respond instinctively: –Writing is a confusing subject with no purpose, no meaning. The point of writing is to find a value within the words of ink that feed the paper–

I take a breath and look into the depths of the students. Cooley was in awe. She esteems my intellect. Cooley was one the most engaged, and interested in the words I’m articulating. I assume they believe I’m a genius. Some, writing on paper. Maybe writing notes, most likely doodling a monster on the side of their assignment that I’ll find erased or scratched out when I grade.

The sky was getting darker. I put my hand to my side and felt my tightly woven coat. I slid my hand back to feel a thin chain. Once the silver string was tightened in my grasp, I pulled on it. Out came a pocket watch. It was nothing interesting, but it did feel nice to be one of those monopoly men who casually take it out and view the time. A stopwatch comes with a light bit of class that requires you to also wear an indulgent pair of oxfords, while dressed nice, you need to show a heart, a passion, which is where the lack of care for the hair is. Along with Maine of black shag.

–The time would suggest we’ve stayed a tad longer than we’re supposed to,– I said, looking up from the watch in my palms.