Stream of Consciousness on the Piccadilly Line

April 18, 2024

what does it matter 

if i don’t know the words 

for every single event that happens in my life 

if i don’t have the definition for 

all the feelings ripping my heart asunder 

everything i wanted is in the melody 

of the song flowing through the wires of my earphones 

i’m still using this old technology that keeps me tied

to a past i miss but that i don’t want to go back to 

and i hate labels 

i hate that i never come up with the right answers 

i hate that words sound so jumbled when I mouth them 

i don’t know if it’s a language barrier 

or a cultural barrier or my inability to speak like a proper adult or it’s because i drool like a child 

or it’s because i think too much but never about the right things and i always chose the wrong moment 

like that time i sent a message to a guy and he never replied maybe he thought i was nuts 

maybe i am— you gotta be nuts 

to stay sane through this mess

this junk 

this brothel 

this disease 

this STD 

this rotten fruit 

this spoiled part of the universe 

where we disrupt ourselves 

scattered like the mice in the sewers of New York 

or the salt your grandma tosses over her shoulder for good luck 

self medicate in superstition and star signs 

and essential oils and non-prescription vitamins 

and smoothies and the Kardashians at night 

blowing ourselves up on the treadmill in the background of some influencer/wanna-be New Age something something taking selfies in front of the mirror 

praising consumerism 








come here and shush 

we don’t want to disturb the demons 

livin’ under the dirty seats making company to

the chewing-gums

hopes and dreams and foods for thoughts how about the whole World goes mute 

would we then be able to listen more to one another to be more aware 

to look into each other’s eyes 

to hold hands 

to hold on 

now i beg your pardon 

i think the next stop is mine but i’m gonna miss it ‘cause i’m

too shy to walk myself through this mob and maybe i’ll find

a new passage to a reality that fits me more

 a fork at the end of the underground tunnel 

and instead of taking one of the two roads i’ll go straight where the honest love wins all the hands 

and the music never stops playin’ 

you know i am made of Love 

i was made to Love 

it’s the ancient story where all us Lovers 

are made reckless and unhappy 

eternal children dying as sacrificial lambs 

like Jesus Christ and all our heroes 

perhaps it’s better to die young 

‘cause there’s no time to corrupt your soul 

and if this World has nothing good to give me it’s fine

slash my skin and boil my brains

i won’t take it personally 

just take care of my heart 

it’s scarred but it keeps beating…


 oh i should have taken the cab.


Maja Urukalo is a writer who lives in Italy. She has rheumatoid arthritis and a caffeine addiction. You can find her on Substack (A Crip Punk) and on Tumblr (@majaurukalo) where she rambles about disability, chronic pain and accessibility when she has the spoons. When she’s not writing, she listens to Alanis Morissette and watches movies.
Featured image by Pau Casals.