He is  a lonely boy, with a secret in the woods.  He holds his iPod close, the music loud enough to be heard outside his ears and the plug of the headphones.  He is mesmerized by the sound, his sight is a blank stare–not capturing any human object–and not attracting an contact.

I wonder why his hair is so wild–the curls tangled and posing in wild ways.  He leans forward like it is easier.  If I were leaning in the way he is, I would be carrying a burden.

He is a beautiful, lonely boy.  The jeans he wears are a symbol of the comfort he feels, in the public train.

If he were to come across a dead bird–something of a chickadee–laying in the grass beneath a tree, he would think it were the most beautiful art, and immediately start to draw the picture of a chickadee, more beautiful dead, than alive.  He looks like he is a close friend of the reaper.  The man,  who, carries the scythe of harvest, and he looks like he can see if this grim reaper is coming for you next.  He smiles, his mouth set.  As if he heard my thought about him.  But he makes no reply, and returns his gaze to face the forward-moving train.

He is the American teenager.  The trouble of teenage emotions is explored by this boy.  No need to go and eat a hamburger with your friends for him, he will sit and create meaning for the no origin sadness or frustration that he feels.  His angst does not bother him.  His angst is the meaning of his life.  And he easily finds all the wailing guitars and drums to go with these lyrics that are sung by the rock gods who look exactly like him.

He paints his nails black, but has refrained from wearing the black eye shadow and the studded jackets and shoes that make the stage look filthy rich.  I wonder why he holds hi iPod so close?  He gets off the train at a stop before I have to go.  I am older than he is by at least a decade, and I wonder why, despite how much I know about him from sharing a short train ride, why I do not feel motherly or even like I would like to marry someone like that?  There is Billy Joe from Green Day, there is Billy Corgan of the Smashing Pumpkins, there is Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance, and of course, one of the Grandfathers of it all, there is Robert Smith of The Cure.  (I hesitate to mention Marilyn Manson, though).

So, why do I hesitate to make that one step of emotional commitment?  Perhaps, I am now just an older version of my eleven-year-old self?  Those teenagers that I loved and wanted to be, just do not hold me like I once held them.  I still see the beauty of their souls, but now, I do not see the dire danger that I felt they were in, or that they could introduce as an experience to a naive–and virgin–teenager.

I hope he will be alright.  There are thousands of teenagers just like him, just in this city.  I chastise myself, often, for thinking that they will grow out of this stage by themselves without any help or suggestion of love and assistance from anyone else.  But really, I do not really know what the answer to their trouble is….  To me, angst, is an invented emotion to just describe frustration and dissatisfaction.  Boys, and, girls, grow quickly through their teen years, and some of their emotions outgrow their experience.  This can become frustrating if nothing is as satisfying as it once was, and, however, there is nothing that is good enough to take the place, the hole, the void, the need, that has grown from being a teenager, with still, the emotions that were nurtured just before.

I wish someone he knew, would just sit and have a hamburger with him.  A Guidance counsellor, an ex-teacher, someone who has hamburger money.  I wish they would be able to laugh at all the wailing guitars and the drums and the lead singer of the band.  I wish homework were on his mind, instead of getting away from his parents.  I wish that the subway were less comforting, forcing him to go outside, beyond himself, towards someplace he doesn’t know.  I wish that he had the motivation to find a part-time job, so, it becomes easier to be close to the public by doing something constructive rather than just riding the rails of the subway.

Angst is the last thing anyone really wants on their mind.  But sometimes, reaching 18 years-old takes a road less travelled.  The things that happen on these roads are often unknown and unplanned for.  We experience things that we are not prepared to endure, which can lead to sudden changes or losses of all kinds.  i hope the lonely, beautiful, boy will find his way home, without too much difficulty.  I worry, but I am powerless.  I worry, but I am not a professional.  I worry, but I have no authority over the boy.  I do think, when I see this boy.  I do feel, when I see this boy.  I wonder, but I don’t really go further.  Is the situation not dire enough?  Is he just pretty enough to look at, that I don’t press the emergency button?

I guess we are all ants.  I am a worker ant, not a soldier ant.  And I think that this is why, we are filled with our roles, and why, we just don’t go beyond these prescribed roles.  I will pray.  And hope that tomorrow will be better for everyone!