“Passenger under the train”

This city is a mental puzzle, checkered arbitrarily with brilliant snapshots surrounded by ill-defined blank spots.

It is no forest for the trees, it is too close, too flat, too fast, too vast, to know it as a whole. 

Stare through the viewfinder. Click! And cast another memory in light. Print it out and put it on your wall and you might sometimes line it up with the next one. Ahh surprise! You didn’t know those pieces went together!

Go underground, pop up, illuminate the spotlight on the deceptive map. Pop back down again, pop up a journey further, a block further, a metre further, who would know.

It fits together so well, a simple puzzle, but dismantled and strewn erratically about by some irritable scrooge who jealously guards the picture on the box. 

Each journey is a clue, adds a hate, and a love. I covet this station, that line. I hate that change, that maze, that furor, that desperation to overtake, and catch, and shove, and crowd.

I thought myself a city girl but the openness was always there. Now the personal bubble recedes, unwillingly, overtaken by the hustle and desperation.

A piece of kindness, given or taken, is a hefty matter for karma to balance; a comment or consideration is a moment to be remembered and shared as a minor miracle.

Ears pop, confused. How far under can we be? Best not to consider given the terror of the space, the crowd, the possibilities of entrapment. Time eclipses, doesn’t pass the same way as time above ground. No signal, no outlet, no course other than that committed to on the platform. A game of hordes, played out in unsettling synchrony.

I wonder, how many are underground at any one moment? How many minding the gap and standing clear of the doors?

How many not minding and throwing themselves before the onslaught, the onrush of timetable and appointment? With no hills to mar the flat expanse, is this the lawyer’s head, the lover’s lookout?

What pride or satisfaction to halt a line with your life. But oh! How little recognition – a line stalled, the workers late, a frustration of temps, a fury of managers.

Is there a collective noun for suicides?



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