Recently, I have come to discover a new truth in my reality.
Nearly 90 percent of days have all been boiled down to rushing-
what is required to feed it and calm it.
I rush to wake up.
I rush to click on the coffee maker until it bares the singular and powerful phrase, “Ready to Brew.”
I rush to grab a mug with shaky fingertips from the cabinet, sliding it underneath the spout of the machine.
My hands jitter and twitch.
Could this be an aftereffect of rushing or
a yearning to be victualted with the stiff and hollow, artificial fuel to
journey through the overarching and exhausting seeming collection of hours that was my day.
A cigarette is pressed between my lips.
I rush to inhale.
I rush to exhale.
my morning self-beating monologue even seems to be trapped in a rushed manner. “Can’t believe its been nine years already and I’m still smoking these things” “Can’t believe how chilly it is this morning” “How am I ever going to be able to quit?” “It’s going to be a long day” “I need to grab another pack before heading off to the train,”
The thoughts exit and enter my brain like a revolving door on 3x speed as I rush to sip my coffee.
I rush to slip on my clothes,
I slide on the same frumpy sweatshirt from the night before-
The very same article of clothing I wore while
rushing to get to sleep the night prior.
I rush to shove and stuff my backpack with commodities:
notebooks, pens, highlighters, packets, my laptop and endless entanglement of chargers and cords.
I rush to wedge my feet into my shoes.
I rush to shimmy and shake into my big, puffy winter coat.
I rush to grab my car keys.
I rush my goodbyes to my mom.
I rush to disappear out the door.
My hands grip the steering wheel, and I begin to feel that familar sticky and sweaty physical sensation that I know far too well.
My throat is parched.
The coffee has finally entered my bloodstream, it seems.
I rush to the train station parking lot.
I rush to park my car in the first vacant spot I see,
regardless of my checkings of the temperatures for later that evening, when I will arrive to rush once more-
Home.
I rush to que up the pay-to-park app on my phone.
I rush to resituate my train tickets to the front section of the fanny pack-
The one that I rush to snap on, into place,
that hugs my waist and excitedly pulses with each rushing step I take.
I rush to the empty train platform.
I rush to leap off the painted yellow line and onto the train cart.
I rush to sit down in the first open seat my eyes interlock with.
My body is slumped, in a still positon
For the moment-
But my mind is still caught rushing.
When the train arrives, I rush off the cart, with my backpack slung over my aching shoulders and my fannypack flopping from side to side.
I rush past the Starbucks,
The 7-11
The Dunk’in Donuts
And the pointy, haunted looking church on the far left corner.
I rush up the ramp to the civil square building.
I rush to approach my classroom.
I rush to sit down
And to stand back up to go to the bathroom
I rush back to open up my laptop
So I can continue to rush through my work.
I rush through the hours of the day in my head, thinking about my bed, my cat and a warm bowl of soup.
When the hours brush past, I rush back towards the train.
Rushing up the six flights of step.
Rushing back onto the train cart.
Rushing back to my car.
Rushing back to my home.
Just so I can rush through dinner,
Rush through my glass of wine,
Rush through my meditation session,
Rush to get into my pajamas,
All so I can rush to sleep
so I can wake up to rush through the next day.