This is part of my daily writing ritual where I write a short monologue / inner monologue in a 45-minute time block. No self-critique. I just start writing and see where it takes me.

Man, it was cold for April. Maybe one last gasp of snow, and then Spring might finally appear. The rain fell onto the platform creating a large puddle. I had to walk around it because I couldn’t gauge if it were a sheet of ice or not. On the surface, the surrounding skyline was a shimmery reflection.

There were so many things I needed to say, but I never did. I never do. That’s not true; I do say something. I also let people come into their own in whatever way is best for them, even if that means stuffing my shit deep into my thick winter jacket. But, before we knew it, the train came and picked her up. I had no idea who she even was, but there was a knowing. It sped away, and the rain picked up again. I stood there with my Bento box and a yearning.

The crowd pushed and pulled into each other. The roar of the trains as they streaked back and forth. I had never been to Japan before, but this energy was delightful. I used it to propel me back through the hordes of people that blocked my path. Off one shoulder and another, I made my way back towards the trains. The next train hadn’t departed yet, so I rushed it.

What was I doing standing there? What was I doing waiting around this place? I knew this station lacked the things I needed to thrive. The trains left one after the other. She was gone—no more bento boxes. I saw no hope left in this situation. The wires and the tracks blended into the distance like my future. My focus now on the city that lies ahead.

The rain finally turned to snow, and my feet were now cold. Yeah, I know I should have been wearing boots, but I didn’t think when I rushed out of the house last minute. I had things to do, and I would not spend an extra second tying up my boots. You could say I have no real patience for things that take time—tying boots and making my bed slow me down from what I should be doing. When I slow down, I become complacent. I was on a mission, and the quicker I could get out of the house, the better. I mean, what good were boots going to do for me?

As that train pulled away, I crept closer and closer to the edge. I’ve gone to edge before, but not like this. What would I find at the border this time? I know what you are thinking, and no. I am not walking out on the actual edge. When I talk about the edge, what I mean is what’s inside. All of these people are standing around wearing the same clothes, holding the same stupid phone in their hands. These people are sheep. When I say edge, I mean our lives. Which of these fine folks is standing around on edge? No one. Maybe she did, but now she’s gone. Perhaps that was her at the edge. I couldn’t be sure.

Most people want to stand close to the edge, but chicken shit their way back behind the yellow line. In my book, the fucking yellow line is a gauge. Something that shows just how far you will go to get to where you want to go. You want to walk up to it and step over it, but things and people get in the way. The yellow line is complacency. Most people are fine just doing whatever, even if it means pushing themselves down.

She was now on the train heading towards the big city. I am unsure of the name but good for her. These trains come and go all day, taking people every which way. I’ve stood her plenty of times looking at the departing trains. Sometimes I get on, and sometimes they pass on by me. Today was different.

The oncoming train raced into the busy station. I took one step off that edge and —