There were mornings on the elevated train, on the way to work, when it all seemed so clear to Allister. There was something that was not there the day before and may not have been the day after.
The train doors slid open and he stepped in and all around were the weathered faces, their bodies armored in down and layered in cotton. And he wondered if it was there. If on that morning they felt it, too. That they were, at once, so fragile (simple turns and twitches could destroy even the strongest among them) and yet so durable. That bodies bent and shaped into so many forms. That dreams and desires burst from hearts in as many varieties as the body could form. Some of them headed to work, some home, some smiled, some bowed heads in retreat, some stood, some sat, some old, some young, and so much in between.
And the train moved and shook. It jolted every so often to remind them that they were simply boxed in by sheets of steel held together by steel rivets. And they believed that the steel would hold and that, barring some inexplicable accident, they would all arrive at their destination-some so much earlier and some so much later than expected. And, knowing that there lay obstacles beyond their control, they still walked through the sliding doors.
And it was there. In those that sat and those that stood, in those that entered and those that left. In those that held in a robust laugh and those that held in a pained sob, waiting for the doors to part at their destination so that they could let forth their emotion in the open. Allister felt there were no words that accurately described the feeling. But, it penetrated their armor. It was a a vibe. It was a crescendo that rose from the depths of all that they had been given and all that they had lost. And Allister swore to me (and he would to you, too) that there were mornings on the train when he felt it beating so strongly-as if he and all the passengers were standing directly above the pulse. And, even as the train plummeted into the darkness below the streets, they pulsed.
The train doors slid open and he stepped in and all around were the weathered faces, their bodies armored in down and layered in cotton. And he wondered if it was there. If on that morning they felt it, too. That they were, at once, so fragile (simple turns and twitches could destroy even the strongest among them) and yet so durable. That bodies bent and shaped into so many forms. That dreams and desires burst from hearts in as many varieties as the body could form. Some of them headed to work, some home, some smiled, some bowed heads in retreat, some stood, some sat, some old, some young, and so much in between.
And the train moved and shook. It jolted every so often to remind them that they were simply boxed in by sheets of steel held together by steel rivets. And they believed that the steel would hold and that, barring some inexplicable accident, they would all arrive at their destination-some so much earlier and some so much later than expected. And, knowing that there lay obstacles beyond their control, they still walked through the sliding doors.
And it was there. In those that sat and those that stood, in those that entered and those that left. In those that held in a robust laugh and those that held in a pained sob, waiting for the doors to part at their destination so that they could let forth their emotion in the open. Allister felt there were no words that accurately described the feeling. But, it penetrated their armor. It was a a vibe. It was a crescendo that rose from the depths of all that they had been given and all that they had lost. And Allister swore to me (and he would to you, too) that there were mornings on the train when he felt it beating so strongly-as if he and all the passengers were standing directly above the pulse. And, even as the train plummeted into the darkness below the streets, they pulsed.
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