Reflections

Train trembles and moans unsteadily as it plunges into the darkening night. Outside the flourishing, green woods pass by, but as the darkness weaves it's web around the world, I am left to stare at my own reflection in the window. It is like some dirty and scratched mirror, that breaks at every station and shows me another bit of the real world and other people, who watch me watch back at them, tired, uninterested.

Their world is the world of social interaction, polite questions and even more polite, or in some case clever and witty answers. I could play that game too. I know. I just played it for the last six hours, and it wore me off. My thoughts are drifting and slowly sinking, like some recently dead animal on the surface of a small swampy pond. Probably some careless mammal who got too confident and just a bit too far from the shore.

Another station, some middle-aged, balding man is walking back and forth restlessly, talking intensively to his cellphone, carrying a backbag on his right shoulder. The light at the station blinks. My reflection breaks and comes back again. I stare into my own eyes and feel uneasy. This is what working does to my mind. I cook soup from 6 to 8 hours and keep on singing to drown my concern about the fact that I have way too much soup brewing. Then I pour it all over these pages. Color white with tomato-red and pepper-orange.

The train plunges into a tunnel like some childish movie-metaphor, and the pressure starts fucking my ears. Ever since the first time I sat in an airplane, pressure's changes have felt just rough and violent. Especially when I feel tired and uninterested. Like now. It's like a puppy that wants to play with you, although you don't throw the ball. It throws it itself and returns the ball to you, wiggling it's tail.

Another stop. I am far too bored to watch out of the window anymore. I just sit, let my mind fill these empty seats with people who don't exist. There's the local vet, Mr. Hannigan, sitting next to the butcher, Mr. Flay. They're holding hands at smiling at each other. They won't notice us, no matter how we try to break their eyecontact or shout at them. Right in front of me sits the sweetest old couple imaginable. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. At nights they like to gag and bound eachother and play all kinds of sadistic games that would make any of us younger passangers flinch. I smile at them and they smile back, simultaneously. Like some old, perverted sex-robots.

I start staring out again. Darkness is pierced by these small boxes of light. Windows. Train goes by these big element barracks, and I see dozens of people living their lives, doing their evening routines. Twenty, thirty little rats in their boxes, unaware of eachother, performing exactly same tasks. It makes me shiver, and I try to concentrate on my reflection. But the city is too bright. I can see only these people, rats in their tiny boxes, rats in their daily grind, rats living their predetermined lives... Rats everywhere!

They are always victims of their circumstances, victims without crimes. It's not their fault they're disgusting. As an individuals, they're probably not. It is just the image they draw as a whole. The image of mankind today, that is what sickens me. Self-conscious? Closer to self-almost-aware. And definately not conscious of it's self and what that "self" is capable of. or then I'm an optimist. Doesn't sound like it? Sounds more like Schopenhauer? I think he was misunderstood, but that does not matter now. I believe that human beings are beautiful, interesting and capable of pretty much anything. The sad part is how we want to be lead, how we don't trust in ourselves but rely on the thought that someone will work things out for us. Instead of being there first, we wait for someone to build us an escalator all the way to the top. I don't quite see the point of freedom if you are not free to exist as to express that freedom. It is our right as human beings. To discover the world as it is, instead of struggling on a short leash, watching our own reflections in the train windows.