seems being merely consists of the walking wounded, such dressed in occasional smiles but typically vacant expressions. peer through the window of a moving train, capture a glimpse of someone moving from A to B, they may be looking out but more so blankly staring at their own reflection caught every now and again as the train slips through an area in which the sun fails to reach. reflections of their own lives, caught in nano seconds that would otherwise be futile given our innate ability to operate in auto pilot. a perpetual “on my way!” to nothingness, from nothingness. there lacks an end destination, and the existential desire to make ends meet, of the ends that never meet.
trains happen to be silent assassins, commuting is the silent assassin. the screeching of the tube wheels against the track are that of us, rallying against our existence that we are bound to. on those lips clenched shut, whilst either scrolling through phones, reading a newspaper or just staring blankly, are cries of “enough!” — harrowing cries that are otherwise buried within order. the rocking from side to side of the tube are our quietly desperate attempts to find stable footing with the possibility of succession being no option. just above lies the river thames cold and barren, dissecting a city just as neglected as those of generations gone by.
