The indigo frequency

The indigo frequency.
This is my stop, for every weekday and and every other Saturday. I am listened to here when I say stop. My nos are bought with currency, my transactions out of my hands. I walk intune with a divine ruler. The skies are blue each day, I miss the orange for I wake up too late and I stay inside too long, I only miss freshness when its 7pm. The faces I see never repeat, in the same way patterns are formed. I am reckless with my phone and reluctant with my security. I trust these people too easily, that they are like me. That they have ways to go and things to do. I believe that like me they need  these trips, that they have bargained their freedom for unconditional love. In their lives there is too much too lose, too many people involved. 
There in lies the catch, my greatest fear. I do not face my self too often. I don't face it truly, or ever. I use masks and fake smiles. I am known but only on the top. If the Morning came and I was forced to the front, the things found would not be beautiful. They would be dirty, far from bearable. If I was forced into a solo act, without help and live I would crumble under the pressure. My subconscious is hanging on to reality by a thread. A slowly disappearing string. I am not made for land. I want to retreat into the deep, to find my home among tunnel visioned activists. To share radicalism with lonely scientists. People low on love, people greatly unmoved by intense moments created by meeting lovers who give false hope. I am an escape artist that is contemplating retirement. I want to go out with a bang, execute one final flawless illusion. I am a second away from being asked the right question, a second from the truth.
It is woven into the back of my head, slowly flowing into my mouth and coming forth in time. I never miss my mark, I am a good time keeper. I keep things that do not belong to me. I make a mental note of intended souvenirs. I am awakened from my day dreams by the sounds of the  irritated people I travel with. They complain about slow moving traffic and arrogant fare collectors. They are disturbed by the the warming vehicle we are confined in and at the top of their heads the problems they always carry with them. Each one with the preconceived notion about the other, judgement is fair play. I am no different I just pretend that I am. Moving quietly to the back so that I can disappear, so that I can get in an hour of uninterrupted good TV.
I find myself looking forward to nothing. To time that carries no value. Sentimentality is attached to simple minutes spent fleeting. Time spent feeling my bones and their presence in my body. I look at my breath through windows and count trees fastly passing me by from the outside. Every passing second I get deeper into worship, I acknowledge the purpose of my legs and my arms. The greatness of my heart and the Weight of things it carries. I commune in spirit and realign myself with divine will. I find myself relying on simple techniques to survive, on  the steady hum of my beating heart.