Shared Tracks

I stand at the corner of Confusion St. and Certainty Ave. I take in the cool breeze, observing with cautious comfort the shimmering Ocean of Opportunities in the overwhelmingly infinite horizon. I hear the familiar rattle of the earth, and I prepare to jump onto the approaching They Line streetcar, yet much to my surprise, it seems to be rapidly accelerating. I step back as it perilously roars around the corner at an unprecedented speed, violently shaking the neighborhood. The car rips away from the electric line and uncouples from the tracks. Before I cover my ears and close my eyes as it inevitably careens into calamity, I look in through the rear window, expecting to see hundreds of terrified faces. From my admittedly limited glance, it curiously appears devoid of a single morning commuter. Nonetheless, I shield myself, preparing for the worst. After an eternity of silent seconds, I open my eyes to a neighborhood that shows no signs of any unusual activity, and the streetcar is not in sight. As I begin to reflect on what has happened, the bell of the They Line jingles as it arrives in front of me, full of passengers.

Did I miss something?

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_____ and Take

I come to your dinner party empty-handed, yet I ravenously consume the food and alcohol you have graciously provided.

This assembly line is in good working order until the final step, resulting in a product that fails to meet any of the world’s standards. I’m downloading everything and uploading nothing. My bank is overflowing from your collective two-cent contributions. I’m plugging but not chugging.

I’m in the market for a goal, and I’ve called around hoping to get a good deal. I’ve been waiting for an aha! moment that has frankly never arrived. I’m tired of going halfway for a nonexistent notion, yet I haven’t yet come up with a good response to this intense inertia.

It’s like I’m saving up my energy for something gigantic, but the game is in its critical stages, and I’m still foolishly stockpiling lives – an enormous reserve which will have been collected in vain once this window disappears.

I don’t know how to fully exert myself because I’ve been able to get by with B effort most of my life, and I’ve done a decent job of hedging my bets for the instances when my primary focus wanes. I’m at a meaningful juncture right now, though, and there’s an imminent engulfing presence I can’t fully comprehend. I’m coming out of this hibernation with the idea that it will be the last, and it’s imperative I make the most of any and all resources I collected before I went under.

All I ask is to care about something. Anything. I’d like to put this overpowering cosmic indifference to rest and offer something useful to the world.

The Foghorns

Here in the Richmond district, the foghorns can regularly be heard guiding boats to safety. When the wind is right, the foghorns are an especially intimate part of the neighborhood; if you didn’t know the bay was so close, you would think the foghorns were built into the houses and the streets.

I find myself on many late night walks here. Nothing compares to the crisp, cool, clean air, a misty breeze, steep yet inviting hills, and a beautiful, arboreal landscape to clear the mind. After midnight, it is silent in the Richmond district. Rarely can a car or pedestrian be seen. Most of the businesses have closed, most of the sidewalks have cleared, most of the lights have been turned off. It’s always surprising that a place with a large amount of people in a small amount of space can be this tranquil.

The walk through Sea Cliff and next to China Beach is serene. Few cars pass over the famous bridge looming in front of me, which is spectacularly lit against the mysterious darkness of the bay.

It is completely and utterly silent except the breeze and the echo of an eerie note intermittently resonating in the distant air, in the nearby air, and in every square inch of air in between: the foghorns.

It’s just me, the cool beauty of the night, and these foghorns.

Where are they guiding me?

How and why did they lead me back to San Francisco?

I wanted to find my own path in becoming a man; are these audible devices signaling me in the right direction? Are they serving their purpose?

I don’t know where I am going, but I am open to every possibility lying around the bend. I get so caught up in anxiety that I forget to stop and listen to the creativity in my mind earnestly awaiting its manifestation.

Part of me feels useless, powerless, and scared, but part of me believes that this thing I call life has a semblance of meaning hidden somewhere, and I am closer to finding it.

I’m still weak. I’m still clueless. I’m working hard, but I can’t do this alone. I need direction.

I’m a ship lost in the fog, and the foghorns are guiding me through this treacherous bay.