You are reading a ‘February is Fun’ article. Every detail here is fictitious. Nothing is to be taken seriously!
I reached the station at t-30s. Took a little breath and then leapt onto the metro. Didn’t really have to jump into it, but I prefer animated introductions. People looked around. At me. Not gonna lie, I lowkey kinda like being the centre of the attention.
I stood next to the metallic pole. Supporting my body weight via my left shoulder. And for the first 5 minutes, I simply just stared outside. Out into the wild. The concrete jungle. With a few trees here and there. The colour green being majorly demonstrated by people’s greed rather than chloroplasts.
By the time I had crossed the third station, the metro compartment was quite full. And, it wasn’t quiet. Some old men had to show off their habit of reading the morning newspapers. Other younger folks boasted about the stories they had read for just a few minutes thanks to the notification in their apps.
There was a kid. Standing all by himself amongst the world of trousers. A year ago, he used to be above the breast pocket level, thanks to his father’s powerful arms. But now, he has grown up. He, therefore, has been demoted.
Two lovebirds were trying to restore our faith in romance. I love it when people single handedly classify themselves into niches and then take the responsibility to visualize the experiences of an individual belonging to that specific niche. And they do that quite publicly. That gives them satisfaction.
To every such performance artist there exists a group of critics. I never understand how the same paradox unfolds in every respect. Apparently, it seems that the critics are the stronger species for they seem to have the courage to speak up. But, there always exists a group of critics criticizing the works of a couple or at least, a group smaller than theirs. What a cowardly display of their strength.