Cloudy Thursday War

The somber mood on the train this morning reflects the mood here in New York. I rode the F train and no one was smiling. No one, except the young couple delighting in how lucky they were, seemingly oblivious of (or in defiance of) the war.

People were now holding newspapers, where novels had been. Others stared at the speckled floor paneling of the F train contemplating quietly to themselves. Occasionally looking up to escape their thoughts in a foot pain ad.

Hey, I can live with foot pain
But why should I?

It all seemed surreal. As if the commute I had known was now being played by actors who, as well as they might, couldn’t capture the essence of my daily commute. The world looks the same, but is changed way down at the core.

Much like my daily commute on the F train into 14th street station every morning, I feel like the passenger in the huge machine which is my government. _Our government._ I have no control over the train, I have no control over my government, but I don’t know how to get off this particular train. The conductor is not listening to his passengers and is blowing past the stops we are asking him stop at. Our conductor has locked his door and is driving the train as he likes, -because he feels it is his.-

I sat and wondered to myself if I am documenting a life I may never see again. A life I might never be able to see again. Every photograph I have taken recently, feels like it will be important somehow. That the wind of change has begun to blow and, unfortunately, I may not be on the side it is blowing from.

I hope I’m wrong.

Subway floor


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