Interchanging

So.

Music drift­ing in and out of rum­bling. Doors. Con­ver­sa­tions. Announce­ments. Can’t hear. Can’t hear much.

Tired. Very, very tired.

I don’t know. There’s some­thing about trav­el­ling on the tube later in the even­ing. Trav­el­ling home. Sta­tions. So many sta­tions. As you live in Lon­don longer, each of them devel­ops their own set of memor­ies. Often these days, I don’t remem­ber sta­tions by their loc­a­tion or the line they’re on; no, I remem­ber them by memor­ies. That’s where we met that strange South African man who believed all our ridicu­lous stor­ies; this is where I helped my friend as she rushed off the train and threw up at the side of the plat­form; that’s where we let trains go through without us for an hour as we talked and talked and talked; this is where — oh, never mind about that one; that’s where we had the vicious row in the middle of the plat­form, within full view and full hear­ing of a bemused eld­erly couple. And so on.

Scenes play out in my mind. Then, in the dark­ness between tun­nels, I watch the wires and lamps and pipes and walls slip by out­side. My head nod­ding for­wards. It’s as if the train is no longer mov­ing whilst the out­side drifts by. Eyes play­ing tricks, though. Just eyes play­ing tricks.

Tired. Rest my head against the glass par­ti­tion at the end of the row of seats. Thank heav­ens for the glass par­ti­tion; I always try and sit next to it.

Take off the head­phones. Listen to the rum­bling, the rat­tling, the con­ver­sa­tions, the slid­ing doors, the noise. Noise. Repeat­ing myself. I’m try­ing to remem­ber his words, her words, their words, but noth­ing comes. Empty. Maybe if I slide my hand across my fore­head? Prob­ably not.

I think I could ride these lines forever until I get where I’m going. Wherever that is. Wherever I am. Wherever you are, even. But I’m not sure where that is. I want to go to the end of the line and see if there’s any­thing there.

I want to secretly leave notes for people trav­el­ling on the Lon­don Under­ground, tucked inbetween the seat cush­ions. A way of com­mu­nic­at­ing in this never-sleeping city.

I think this is my station.