Three Thirty-Four

I wake up at 3:34am according to the digital output on my clock. In the distance the train rumbles, blaring its horn, still too far away to be the cause of waking me up. Three thirty-four is normal, though. But sometimes I roll over and fall back asleep. Sometimes I don't. I didn't.

The train continues to rumble, pulsing as it presses forward, unconcerned, steady. The horn blares as it passes through neighborhoods too small to warrant arms that slowly descend to keep cars from racing over the tracks; neighborhoods that only have the blinking lights and blare of the horn to warn them. Caution! Stop!

The relentless pulsing of the oncoming train slides into rhythm with a growing dread within me.

At three thirty-four in the morning defenses are down, the nebulous betwixt-and-between shadows obscure the rationale of a more revealed daylight. At three thirty-four this morning I become one with the train.

The rumble. The pulse. The blare. It moves relentlessly towards me, building pressure, condensing time/space.

I have a dream, a goal. One so compelling that I, Dezra, possessively private and highly wary, am willing to blog about it; blogging with very little privacy mechanisms in place--so unlike me. I am opening up a very private aspect of myself to public scrutiny.

The train approaches. I shift in bed. The panic I've learned to control rumbles in rhythm to the turning of the wheels. Time/space pressure continues to build.

Have I thought through this goal? Have I truly considered the ramifications? (rumble) Is it possible to eradicate an $8,000 debt in one year? On my wages? (rumble rumble) What would that mean? What lifestyle changes would I make? (rumble rumble rumble) What will I lose? What will I gain? Can I DO it? (rumble rumble rumble rumble)

The pulse rises. The train--relentless. I falter. I'm crazy! Crazy! $8,000! Really? The horn blares out a warning cry! It's at Audubon, my cross street! I hear it. Loud. It's warning me. Warning! It's saying, "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

Caution! Stop! At three thirty-four!

The pressure peaks, then the loco-motion rips through the silent connection between me and the other side of the tracks. It cuts through me. Its wheels, steel on steel, slice by.

And then it's gone, the distant rumble leaves me afraid, pensive. Can I really do this? At three thirty-four the air clears. But the doubts....