Days go by, I sit amongst others who are like me but not quite the same. Yes, we all have the same print, we are made of the same stuff, but experience is what really makes us.
I’ve witnessed the ‘sleepy working mum’ who rings her kids on her way home from work. She listens dutifully to their harmonious days whilst remembering her arduous one. She says “see you soon, I love you” and hangs up the phone. Then out comes her phone on which she pretends to read the news, whilst her eyes slowly drift to a close. Her first shift at work is done, now she must go home to another. I let her rest, god knows she needs it, all the way up to her stop at which she leaves groggy, but slightly better rested.
There’s also the ‘classic chav’ who wears a tracksuit and swears a lot. Keeping up his bravado is a must. He cusses out his ‘mate’ before rolling up another cigarette ready to light after leaving this train. But my favourite part of the ‘classic chav’ is when his bravado lays dormant. When he’s not telling someone he got out of prison last week or that he really needs a smoke. He sits there quietly, in amongst his own thoughts, who knows what’s going on in his head? Who knows what has happened to him, today, this week or even this year? When he’s not putting on a show he’s just as human as everyone else. He’s ordinary in his silence.
Next comes the ‘stress-head’ the one who’s all a fluster at the train running five minutes late. Her hair is windswept, yet her makeup is still intact. She taps her fingers on me in an increasing frenzy of nervous jitters. She stares out the window willing the train to go faster. Knowing all the same, it makes no difference. Her body doesn’t relax for the whole commute. She remains rigid and teetering on the edge. Where on earth could she be headed that’s so important?
The friendly old man is, the seat next to me’s, favourite type of passenger. He occasionally naps and that in itself gives a peaceful rest to those who need it most. The best part though, is when he’s awake and lively. He chats to everyone and anyone, even himself sometimes. He tells stories of the ‘good old days’ captivating every ear within reach of his booming voice. He laughs, he chuckles, he spreads uncontainable joy. He’s happy in his old age, not a care in the world. Why should he care, he’s done his bit?
My personal favourite is the emotional passengers. Maybe favourite isn’t the right word as such. You see, nearly every day there’s some poor soul that sits on me, embarking on a journey, who’s full of tears. Whether the tears haven’t sprung yet or whether they’re cascading like a waterfall, it’s beautiful to watch. Not beautiful to watch someone cry as such, but to see such a person in a despairing state, release their emotions in an honest way and then wipe away their sadness and put on a brave face. Pulling themselves together as some call it. It’s a beautiful transformation that I get to be an audience to. A private show of some kind.
Not only do people embark on a physical journey they also embark on an emotional one, as soon as their day begins and sometimes as it’s ending.
I just sit there and hold them as best I can.
Write Fire With Fire 