But for every yin, there exists yang. Windows are the yangs. They are an escape from the overcrowding. At least, for the part of the journey when the metro decides to fly above the ground. For the underground part however, they are just mirrors. And who’s to say that mirrors aren’t windows. These mirrors show us our inner scenery. But men have trained themselves to overlook the inner self and instead focus on the outside. So, these days, most use the windows to fix their hairstyles, even though they could have potentially used that time to cleanse their minds.
I would love to talk about the seats, and being a person with commendable curiosity, I had fixed up an interview too, but the seats straight up denied talking to me. They said that being perpetually close to the, I shall choose to omit the particular word that they had used and instead go with a much milder synonym, aboral surfaces of every traveller, at least those who chose to sit on a seat, and being bathed in what they called, sweat from the underworld, I’m not sure whether underworld is what they said, but it seems metaphorically consistent, so I’ll proceed with it, they have started to dislike the members of our species. I don’t blame them, though.
Time, in a metro, flows like a river. At times it is deeper and faster, other times it is more sluggish. Whatever the first order derivative of flux of time with respect to time itself maybe, it definitely adds an unique flavor to the prospect of travelling in the metro. I’m only a few stations away from my destination. So, I guess I should move. And I shall stand next to, you might have guessed it, those sliding doors.
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