I’ve figured it out — if I have to write, and if I set myself up in a regimen of near-daily writing (eg. the blog to follow my every running venture), then it becomes a chore and something I put off. If I let it go and don’t push it, then the itch comes back on its own but always, of course, when I’m stuck on a bus/subway and conveniently without anything to write with.

Then the commute is done, and here I am ready to bring the ideas back up to write them, but the freshness and passion is already faded. The whole thing feels less energetic, like I’m missing something and not really able to capture whatever it is I’ve witnessed or felt or experienced.

I was out directly after work this evening, meeting up with one of Michael’s old friends and her coworkers at a sports bar around Midtown. About an hour in, and after only a pint, my eye started to feel as though there was something in it. The harder I tried to ignore it, or fix it with eye drops, the worse it felt. I don’t tend to keep my glasses on me, so I felt stuck and distracted and more tired than I actually was.

So, I bailed. Mike stayed to enjoy his evening, and I trekked home to get the bloody things out of my eyes and my arse in comfy clothes and in my own space. I don’t often have home alone evenings, so it feels quiet but I like the silence after a week of sometimes noisy change (my new desk is in the more open concept part of the office).

It was a long wait to get home. The interesting people, of course, are venturing out in the early Friday evening, between 8 and 9pm. The night is young. And I am entertained.

There is a group at the back of the bus, a seat behind me. I gather they’ve all run into each other at Finch station but are heading in separate directions. The two girls, who say “omigod” lots and loudly, get off at their stop for a party. They both have nearly identical Chanel logo bags.

One of the guys reflects to the other one, “Those are two fine chops” — the way he says it sounds put on, like he’s really feeling for his friend’s thoughts.

The other guy sounds put off and, maturely for a 19-20 year old male, says, “Well, I’ve known them since they were young — I’ve known them well enough in other ways and I’ve never seen them that way”.

Right away, the other guy is getting off at his stop, and when he turns back he looks even younger than I thought. He looks tough in dress (have baggy over-sized pants ever been out of style? I can’t remember when they haven’t been) but not so much in any other way.

Cigarette in hand at the ready, he turns back and says, “Hey, if you need anything, lemme know — you know, I’m around the Countrystyle (the coffee stop) and I’m around whenever you need, ‘kay?”

He is concerned and genuine and vulnerable.

The other guy, wearing expensive-looking sunglasses and therefore unreadable in expression, says yeah. And gets off at the very next stop, one before mine.

These things stick with me, like I’m catching a part of a narrative without the context, but definitely catching something worth telling again.

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