Graffiti

I was traveling alone on the Long Island Rail Road and slowly making my way into Penn Station. Slowly the motion of the train eases my mind and I am lulled by the passing of life and the accoutrements of middle class suburbia pass along at a steady clip.
You get to see the backyards of so much of life. Pools now covered with remnants of the ice and snow. Perhaps wrecks and shells of cars pass by, as does all the backyards of so many Lives. Each person has a story to tell. We all do. As the city gets a bit closer, the graffitti starts to blanket the passing rail cars and empty buildings. The inside of the bridges become the palette for the street artist. I am sometimes amazed at the expression of the street artist; even their sense of creativity can not be harnessed. I wonder if they were given a studio and a blank canvas would the bridges and empty factory bricks still serve to inspire them? Is it the destruction of the public property that entices them or just the inner desire to express themselves?