A Nap on the Train

It's a warm feeling, when you give in to the exhaustion of being awake at the ungodly hour of 7:30 AM. For me, it's usually on the rug in the bathroom, sneaking a quick two-minute nap while the shower warms up-- two square-feet of plush, in such a circumstance, is comparable to any queen-sized bed I have ever shared. 
The next short nap is taken standing up, under the shower head-- the warm water act as a blanket in a particularly engulfing waterbed.
The third nap is the most dangerous, in regard to timeliness. This one is taken on the blue line, immediately after transferring from the red line. I take the window seat, next to the rotund man who sat on the end seat in order to block the window seat from occupation. While his value system places personal space near the top, his stained sweatpants clarify that, within said space, there are no standards.
I initially noticed this man on my very first train ride to high school, freshman year. Every ride since has included his doppelganger of habit and style. I combat his petty gesture of self-entitlement with an, "excuse me, is anyone sitting there?," to which he begrudgingly turns his legs to the aisle, creating a tight but soft walkway. As I stumble through to my seat I imagine a red carpet under my feet-- a "thank you" from society for challenging this man's absurd degree of self-importance.
This particular train ride and nap begin like any other-- the third in a trilogy of post-sleep, pre-workday naps to satiate the exhaustion that comes with a bleak outlook on a, say, Tuesday morning. As I doze off, my posture begins the slow fold forward that culminates in a top-of-the-roller-coaster-like feeling. I jerk forward, startled, then allow my eyelids to close again. This ostensibly occurs because somewhere deep in my subconscious is a very slight aspect of my personality that is responsible and cares that I make it to work on-time. Were this not the case, I would sleep through my stop on a daily basis (provided I had even made it out of bed in the first place. And, if we're going to extremes, the question of whether or not I would still be employed must be asked). The whole process of lurching forward, waking up startled, and settling back into a transitory slumber exists on a loop until, ideally, I come-to by the sound of the conductor calling my stop.
"This is Racine... watch your step... doors closing!" the conductor yells every morning, though perhaps he forgot to on this particular morning. I drift in, then out, then back in again, occasionally catching the names of stops I recognize only as "not mine." I faintly notice the rumble of the wheels on the tracks grow louder, as if echoing in a tunnel that my route doesn't take me through. My eyelids illuminate my closed eyes singularly by means of unnatural light. "Such bizarre circumstances can only mean I'm dreaming!" I dream, unaware that my few responsible cells are trying to alert me of my irresponsibility.
I finally awake to a sun that's higher in the sky than it should be. For a second I blame the changing seasons, then I notice, on an imaginary table in front of me: crow. I stare in awe at such a proverbial monstrosity, ripe and ready to be eaten. My personal humiliation is furthered by my inability to move from my seat. The man sitting next to me has a slight grin on his face, as if he has scored some substantial victory in a battle that I had initiated.

My general feelings swing between two fairly extreme mindsets. No, that's necessarily right. How about this: if my outlook was one of those swinging-balls-on-a-pendulum things that are featured in physics class, it would be the balls suspended in the middle. It would be jarred and rattled by the two extremes: a good old-fashioned positive mental outlook that optimistically views myself as a protagonist in a horrible world whose job is to better himself and, by proxy, those around him; the other extreme is a general feeling that I'm only hanging around this world as a favor to the one's I appreciate for being in my life, like I wouldn't want to burden anyone with the aftermath of a consensual ending. And isn't that messed up? I mean, the Christian bible says that suicide is, like, a deadly sin, right? Like you're not permitted into heaven and you're generally shunned by the afterworld. That's good and well, but not everyone's a Christian. Here's what's messed up: that idea has been so assimilated into western culture that even non-Christians hold that perception. The implications stretch to suffering, and whether or not Dr. Kevorkian is an asshole. I mean, isn't the profundity of a long stretch of general malaise enough to be considered suffering? And is it anybody else's business what choices I make?
On the other end of the ball-game-thing,

Where were you last night?

I awoke this morning to the hall lights burning-- tired and hot to the touch, laboring unrecognizably in the sun's sharp rays. 
Your door was still open and the dog still had to pee. I let her in the backyard and turned down the switches, relieving the house of her duties since you didn't permit her to sleep.
The phone, on the other hand, was unrattled through the bright and silent night: no "goodnight"s or "I'll be home late"s or "don't wait up"s-- not even your four-AM friends voicing their pleas to an unanswering machine.
But I'm back in the kitchen as the eggs in the skillet sizzle and quiver. You linger on the third step as your friends are watching and waiting, but they drive away when you wave them to. Did you think you were just tired? Are your friends to blame? Would you have left a friend who couldn't make it up five steps and into his own home?
The toaster pops my mind back into focus and your presence is merely dulled, like sunlight by the thin veil of a lingering cumulus cloud that will never pass.