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The camel and his straw may be a cliche, but it most certainly is not a myth.

In fact, I have felt it very recently: that inscrutable push over a ledge I've previously traipsed with relative elegance (all klumsiness aside).



And, no, I'm not talking about how, this weekend, I fell down half a flight of stairs at a popular sporting event only to hear a crowd utter "Ohhhhh!" in a sort of bemused unison.



[In hindsight, I actually found that experience to be rather humorous myself.]

It doesn't matter what I'm talking about, really: the particulars so seldom do. Because, with moments like this there is little to say but the obvious:

Nothing I do now will change a thing.




And yet: my perspective has changed entirely.




Losing people is funny like that; like that favorite pair of socks and the mysterious mate that slinks away after a single washing.

It's gone. There's nothing you can do. Best to move on while your legs are still strong enough to do the walking.



And so onward you drive, 5 mph in a 40; your 20 miles taking 90 minutes. You crawl and you sigh, watching and marveling as you're passed by scowling women in every shade of Mercedes; and blue-toothed men gesturing from their Beemers and six-cylinder Inifities.



I, too, could go on forever, you think.

[And often do.]



Along the way there are homes, too: brilliant, beautiful castles and mansions interspersed with the occasional, charming cottage (more my style). And yet: all beyond anything I'll ever see from the inside.




"My life goal," I tell family and friends, "is to have my own washer and dryer."

Forget the 4 bedroom home and the picket fence. Forget the 2 1/2 children and the 3 car garage. Forget the book deal and the trip to Scotland: I want to stop doing my laundry where the cockroaches outweigh my cat and the change machine is graffitied with gang signs.



Is that too much to ask for?

Some days, yes.

Yes it is.



And there is this train, this beautiful train. Layered with dirt, puddles of urine caked half-dry and sticky in particular corners. The people are amazing, looking every direction but at each other.

"This is my stop," you say, lost in the middle of everything.

"This is my stop."




You look around you only to see what you knew all along: that every head is down





and no one is listening.