(no subject)
The peak hour trains elastically jolt me into what is the reality of life. They have always fascinated me. They are the only times that people don't mind being crammed together like sardines. People are considerate and courteous, people make room because nobody wants to be left behind.
It is a place where people have mastered the art of reading standing up, and more impressive yet, reading with their eyes closed. I wonder how many of these blind readers will remain oblivious still as they leave their stops behind. They don't know, but I am watching them. I know who is reading what, who is checking out who and who is sharing a newspaper over whose shoulder.
I don't remember Harriet the Spy very well, but I think on the peak hour trains, I feel like her. I wonder about the people. I wonder where they work, who they are going home to, whether they have any pets and why they wear what they have chosen to wear. I wonder what they are thinking, and I wonder if they are watching me.
Even though I am not standing in the most comfortable position, I am disappointed when the train pulls up at my station. Making my way to the doors, I offer older ladies in front of me the seat that has just emptied behind. They accept it graciously continuing their conversation about scarves like it had never been interrupted.
I step out into the crisp fresh air, knowing that I will remember them for a lot longer than they will remember me.
It is a place where people have mastered the art of reading standing up, and more impressive yet, reading with their eyes closed. I wonder how many of these blind readers will remain oblivious still as they leave their stops behind. They don't know, but I am watching them. I know who is reading what, who is checking out who and who is sharing a newspaper over whose shoulder.
I don't remember Harriet the Spy very well, but I think on the peak hour trains, I feel like her. I wonder about the people. I wonder where they work, who they are going home to, whether they have any pets and why they wear what they have chosen to wear. I wonder what they are thinking, and I wonder if they are watching me.
Even though I am not standing in the most comfortable position, I am disappointed when the train pulls up at my station. Making my way to the doors, I offer older ladies in front of me the seat that has just emptied behind. They accept it graciously continuing their conversation about scarves like it had never been interrupted.
I step out into the crisp fresh air, knowing that I will remember them for a lot longer than they will remember me.