(In Transit)

I was sitting alone on the subway this afternoon.
Just a simple, nothing trip home from a simple, nothing day at work.
I was happy, content might be a better word, just to be sitting alone amongst strangers. My headphones were in and I was day-dreaming. About what I can no longer remember.
My eyes wandered from the gentleman sitting across from me, who I noticed wasn't laughing at his new copy of "Me Talk Pretty One Day" to the large man seated beside him, who sat wide legged and rapidly scribbled in the small leatherbound journal atop his lap. 51st Street became 42nd. 42nd turned into 33rd. 33rd into 28th and so on and so forth.
Eventually my gaze shifted upwards. Suddenly I sat reading an MTA "Poetry in Motion" poster just slightly above the heads of the few standing passengers in this surprisingly and delightfully sparse afternoon train. I found myself for the first time in all my years of taking public transport actually enjoying the poem--a short piece that expressed one's inner struggle between the desire to create and the necessity for basic human survival. It touched something in me and I was immediately called to do what I always want to do when something pleases or affects me in one way or another. I had to have it. I had to capture it, own it in my own way. I pulled out my small sony camera and before even thinking, lifted it to eye level and snapped what seemed like the longest photograph ever, which came accompanied by a very elaborate and extravagantly bright flash.
Immediately color ran to my cheeks. I could feel my entire neck flush, like a part of my anatomy had been suddenly and shockingly exposed. I was really only embarrassed because I didn't want anyone to think I was bold enough to flat out take a photograph of them (though I've pulled this trick off in subways before). And I was met with a combination of annoyance and of-coursedness when I viewed the digital shot and found that in my nervousness I'd missed the poster all together.
In my own dogged determination I re-raised my camera, praying the flash would simply be napping, and steadied my view-finder until the poem was clearly and legibly in focus.
I snapped the photograph.
It came out just fine.
And after a moment or two, which felt like much longer, I mustered the courage to lift my head and meet the cold and indifferent consternation of a public unable to understand the choices I'd made.
I looked up.
No one was staring at me. No one had cared enough to notice. Not even wonder curiously, "What's that kid going on about with the camera and the flashing and the oy..." Now I'm observant enough to know that New York subway passengers have seen it all. From a blind woman singing Tony Bennett to street dancers who swing above the heads of tourists, missing an eye socket and a lawsuit by mere inches in a rousing above ground ariel performance complete with flips and twirls.
Hell, one time I saw human feces.
A kid in Coach dress shoes and a blazer pulling out a camera doesn't even begin to hit the radar.
But that's the thing about the ev-er-y dayness of ev-er-y day life.
You have to live it ev--er--y day.
And at the end of one day, after one twenty four hour cycle comes to a close and before the next can begin, I anyway-I-just desperately want to be noticed by somebody. I just desperately need to matter. To someone...to anyone...to anyone at all.