By Ryan Mimna

Author’s Note: I wrote this by hand in my journal at an Irish pub near 30th Street Station in Philadelphia while waiting for a train. Unfortunately, it looks like the pub itself was a casualty of the pandemic.

At the time, I was in my last semester at Penn, living in North Philadelphia and commuting by train. The regional rails generally came by the hour, so if you missed one, you had a lot of time on your hands. I found myself in this pub, overhearing people talk about Philadelphia sports teams, and wondering, why the hell doesn’t that stuff interest you, Ryan? Why are you writing this?

I guess sometimes I go to pubs to think about the world, but most of the time I go to them to forget about the world. Maybe that’s the why. As sovereign as these souls of ours are, they are still beholden to this world.

From my muddled mind, I share memories and thoughts of yesterday finally given light in present day.

What Hides Your Heart?

Scattered thoughts, my mind is hungover. Quite literally in the physical sense. If that makes sense. In this tangled mind, I ponder what a coherent thought is. What does it even matter? A thought’s a thought.

I’ve written that before. Cyclical are our thoughts. Those same thoughts define our nature. Scattered thoughts where words are few, you wonder what is true. Should I lie to you? Tell you what is true. I wonder what to say. Ever have something that needed to be true?

How can I lie to you? I only know distorted truth. In the shades of abstract thought and beer, what is it you truly fear?

Down the Rabbit Hole

I sit in this pub to regain perspective. What a strange day it has already been. Living time by trains, it can be hard to form a coherent thought. Why am I even writing about my thoughts?

What is it we even think about when our minds are about? Down a rabbit hole, that is my normal train of thought. To what ends, only rabbits know where their holes go. A rabbit hole of thoughts, its purpose beholden to the rabbit alone.

Stoicism and the Fallacies of Youth

Stoic can be the heart. You define the world, it does not shape you. If stoic is the heart, may wisdom be true. Arrogance is the fallacy of youth.

In the hubris of youth, we can miss what is true. Hubris, have you ever seen it harden a heart? Stoic virtues, yes, they are true, but what of their poison, if reconciled with the fallacies of youth?

Stoic hearts poisoned by the hubris of youth, what shell can crack it but truth? Stoic is the righteous heart. I have only ever been beholden to hardened hearts.

Sovereignty of the Soul

Sitting in this pub, it is interesting where my mind drifts. My thoughts are not the conversation of the pub, so I feel alone. Lonely soul, at least it makes sense why I am in this pub on my own.

It’s a miserable existence, the one I call my own. Paint the sadness with laughter and vivid pictures, and it remains a sad existence. Yet, how many others call it their own?

So I write, maybe I will stumble onto something that feels right. Stumbling in this darkness, would I even know what right looked like? Sometimes I don’t have the words to say. Maybe that is what right feels like.

We are born and die alone. Paradoxical to me is that the sovereignty of the soul cannot be realized on its own. So what does your soul look like? I cannot bear to see mine alone.

Hope

Where does it come from, manifesting in myself only when realized through others? Perhaps it is the nature of hope that I even ponder the duality of the soul. Do you write of hope to reaffirm it to yourself or others? Is it duplicity under the guise of truth?

Hope,

what does it mean to you?

Hope hides in my heart, it needs to be true.

Thoughts While Waiting for Another Train, Six Days Later

Distance Between

What’s the difference between an intelligent man and a desperate man?

I used to be able to tell you.

Desperation forces the eyes to see true.

Destitution holds its own truths too.

I hunger for truth, avaricious is the mind too.

What of intelligence? Of desperation?

In regard to truth, what of it?

Those actions that define you.

An intelligent man, a desperate man.

Both beholden to truth. What of it?

Does it even matter to you?

It used to matter to me.

Ryan Mimna’s original handwritten journal pages for “Thoughts in a Pub While Waiting for a Train,” written at an Irish pub near Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station while waiting for the next regional rail train. Images courtesy of Ryan Mimna, used with permission.

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Ryan Mimna lives in Philadelphia and works in the finance industry. He served in the U.S. Army from 2011 to 2015 and, after completing the Ranger pipeline, served with 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, including multiple tours in Afghanistan. After leaving the Army, he finished a bachelor’s degree in political science at the University of Pennsylvania, where he began writing and later turned toward poetry. For The Havok Journal, he writes reflective pieces and poetry, often centered on fear, meaning, and the inner life.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.