I’m standing on the train platform, watching the Brown Line approach. I close my eyes against the rush of wind that hits my face as the front of the train rushes by me. It’s one of my favorite things about the city, that rush of wind. I don’t know why.

I step on the train and sit down in a window seat, watch the people and buildings and trees and the rest of the world rush by. As always, my iPod is on.

How did I get here? How the hell? Close on the steeple of the church. How did I get here, how the hell? Christmas. Christmas Eve last year.

Gosh, how did I get here? I can’t believe it’s been a year since I moved to the city. I think back and try to remember the day when the el started to feel normal, or when I stopped looking up at the skyline. Of course, I can’t remember. I suppose it didn’t happen all at once.

So much has changed in a year. I can rant about corporate politics for hours, I spend entirely too much energy resisting urges to correct grammar or improve the tracking of a page, and I know what widows, picas, and artlogs are. Oh, and Shannon’s right. When I see God at the pearly gates, I am TOTALLY asking for all the time I spent searching for the pi symbol in the character map back.

I cross streets without paying attention to the blinking red hand. I measure distance not by time or miles, but by number of transfers or train stops. I find quiet rather disconcerting and the rumble of the train comforting.

Weird. Weird that the answer to, “How did I get here?” is really simply, “by following my gut.” I had no idea what I was doing when I moved here, but it’s turned out to be a good choice. Even if I do have some crowd rage issues. Oooh. The song changed.

It’s been a long December, and there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last.

Man, back in January, around the time of my birthday, I can remember thinking that this 23rd year was really looking like it was going to be a good one. Now, here in June, I have to admit it hasn’t been what I’d hoped. I learned a lot about myself though. That’s good right? That’s good.

Although sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off with some blissful ignorance.

Things are looking up, though. Even though I’m scared about going into debt, I know I made the right decision about grad school. I kind of feel like I’ve already hit my glass ceiling at work, and my manager just doesn’t –

--wait a minute. I turned 23, so that means I’ve been around a full 23 years, and this is my 24th year. So, I thought the 24th year was really looking like it was going to be a good one. Not 23rd. Well, I did think 23rd. But I was wrong. I should have thought 24th.

Anyway. What was I thinking about before?

I dreamed a dream in time gone by. When hope was high and life worth living.

You know what I need? A dream. It’s always bothered me that I don’t really have one. All I really want in life is to be happy. I want to feel connected to people, and I want to do what I can to help the people in my life get what they want. But what do I want, really? I don’t have a clue.

Lately I’ve been thinking that somewhere deep down in my soul, I want to be a writer. I’d like to write a book, but really what I think I’d be good at is writing a newspaper column. People could write in and ask me to go do something and write about the experience. Or just my thoughts on something.

Yeah, I think a newspaper column could be fun. That’s the closest thing I have to a dream.

Which makes it seem odd to most people, including me, that I am about to start a graduate program in educational psychology. I’m really looking forward to it, but I have no idea how or even if I will ever really apply it. After all, I have yet to really use my math degree. I guess I just don’t think the purpose of education should be to get a job.

Hmm.

Talk to me. Baby, won’t you talk to me?

You know, for how many people are in this train car, there’s remarkably little talking going on. They say that humans are social beings, but I’m not convinced. No one talks to people they don’t know, really. Not even small talk.

Well, I shouldn’t say that. I’ve definitely been sitting next to talkers before. And actually, back before I had my iPod, I used to talk to strangers occasionally about their shoes or the books they were reading. Now, I just sit here daydreaming in my own little iPod world. Actually, you never see anyone with a book or an mp3 player talking to anyone. It’s only the people that don’t have anything better to do on the train.

Maybe humans aren’t really social beings at all. Maybe we are just bored beings.

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend, somewhere along in the bitterness.

It really is sad the way friends come and go. It’s not always because of fights or bad blood. Sometimes, you just wake up one day and realize you haven’t talked to a certain person for months, maybe even years. When that happens to me, and I think of someone, I always wonder if he or she ever thinks of me. That’s really all I can hope for at that point, I suppose.

Of course, sometimes, it is because of fights or bad blood. Yes, that’s happened in my life more than I would like. And sometimes it has been resolved, sometimes not. If only all those people knew how much time I spent agonizing over all those situations. If only they knew that I still thought about them and wondered if anything was my fault or wondered if there was anything I should have done differently.

Funny how I hope none of them agonize over things the way I do, but a tiny part of me wishes they would, if only so I could know that I was a friend that was hard to lose.

I really believe that I make that wish humbly, in hope that I am, in general, a good friend. But deep down, is that selfish? Am I just wanting to know that I was right all along?

But if that’s the case, why am I still thinking about it? Can it really be possible for me to be that selfish and torture myself that much at the same time? Or am I just using the…

Southport? Oh, this is my stop.

Wow. That 40 minutes went by fast. I’m glad though, because I’m hungry.

What should I do after dinner? I have leftovers, so I should have a couple of free hours tonight. Maybe I’ll update my blog.

I always wonder if my readers really care about the things I write about, though. I told them all I was an over-thinker, but they can’t possibly guess how much time I spend thinking about things that would never occur to 90 percent of the population.

If they only knew what went on in my head….