“I do film. I do art stuff”

I sat at a corner chair on the Brooklyn bound express R train; the one of two chairs squeezed in for extra seating space. The woman perpendicular to myself wrote in her New York themed journal of her desire to discover love in The Caribbean, which she had already fallen in love with. I found the cover of the journal to be quite deceiving. Why is she in New York City while she is in love with a region far away. She sat cross legged in her knee length, modern boho print dress and occasionally scanned her mind for the next phrase to jot down by jolting her eyes around the train car. The woman of approximately thirty years of age continued to write of the “fumbling search” and how “mystery is not despair”. Unlike most, her red stained lips did not quiver or budge at all for the duration of the ride. She tucked her perfect curl behind her ear with her pale white and lengthy fingers that were not painted red like her toenails.

At one stop, a man entered the train and sparked a conversation with a younger woman. The young woman dressed in a ripped t-shirt, jeans, and thigh boots responded surprisingly positive to this man’s gesture. She talked as if she was just “catching up” with an acquaintance she had not seen in years. Her short hair nodded with her head as he asked her what she does for a living. “I do film. I do art stuff,” she said. Her loss of words to describe a profession of visual arts was charming and relatable.

I glanced back at the love hungry woman who first drew my attention. Her lips remained pursed and her eyelids still lowered, but her head pointed towards the young woman and the flirting man. The sparks from the two young strangers flew directly into the fold of her forehead causing it to deepen. She, then proceeded to tuck her journal of hopes and desires into her trusty cross body bag and took out a novel. Perhaps it signified a brief loss of hope. She is a woman of words, a woman who prefers desire over fulfillment. The young woman, who could not describe her profession in words other than “I do film. I do art stuff,” and prefers to see, show, prefers to fulfill her desires by being open to the world around her.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.