Commuter Morning

Winter mornings are the worst. Just look at us! Early risers who, when lucky see the sun once during the day. With the cold fog and the long nights come these depressing thoughts again: about how the clerks are led to their daily bleeding, bustling to get in to the shed we push and shove for our seat as if we did not know what awaits at the end of these daily journeys.

 Winter Mornings are the worst,  just when you are getting warm under your blankets you have to get out of bed and the by dreams conjured colors are quickly forgotten. This is how you step into an everlasting night and fog, it even creeps in to the underground passage and deep within yourself. The tracks of the station are lost a few meters in to darkness and mist, they might as well lead in to another world and our own personal hell.

At least I am standing here in the cold not alone but with my two unhealthy friends to keep me company. No conversation is required only consumption. After I finished my first cigarette and half of my coffee the decision to light another one was an easy one as there were still ten minutes before the train arrives. Another compulsion that makes this daily routine so torturous. The need to be early.

Winter like these are nice for a while but I have reached my tipping point. For far too long the days have only been grey and the cold has carried this monochromatic existence in to my heart. On lucky days you might have caught a glimpse of blue sky, that you know exists, but still miss. The cold has become my enemy, the days where I revered the sharp sting of fresh air in my lung have passed. No longer can I find any poetic beauty in snow, fog, perpetual rain and cold air only the wish for an end of this freezing existence.

Be mindful, I complain about fifteen minutes of cold. Then a train carries me in a heated compartment through this wall of white over and under the hills on top of bridges over valleys and in to town. When I step out of the warmth to walk but ten minutes through this black and white world till I am in my heated pen again, with colorful lights and all the distractions I need. I still have reached my tipping point as I have become accustomed to this level of decadence.

The horizon this morning only extends so far as the wall of fog that closes in on me and my fellow commuters. No words are spoken this early in the morning. It is an unwritten rule. The entire world has become only a part of a train station it has no beginning and no end. The night of dawn and winter closes in on both sides. Out of the passage other commuters are filing in to their favorite waiting spots because you never know where your train stops. It is a ghostly sight and for a moment my mind shapes a story about our own personal commuters Hades. We are willing to pay the ferry men and gladly step first on to a train that delivers us to our nine to five existence.

Bundled up, yet still shivering, I finished another unhealthy friend and sipped the last bit of already cold coffee. I think these routines are what are needed to trick yourself into waking up at these ungodly hours. We make our way for purpose, education, work and money we all give up part of our existence to finance another part of it. For most I guess this deal is desirable. Even I have been in the position where I was more thankful than annoyed that I could get up to give up time of my life for money, which in turn lead to a bought purpose. I shouldn’t feel ashamed of it, it is what one does and also the most respected way of spending your time is indeed the pursuit of wealth.

But I feel no longer should these bills be the dyes of my existence, colored in red, yellow, green and blue. Despite this colored paper the world has become black and white, sleep and awake, dreaming and dreading. These are the thoughts of my half awake mind while they crunch up a paper cup of coffee with two cigarette butts within it. The train arrives and the day promises to be like any other in this winter, grey.

The usual run to the doors begins, where will they stop? Who has guessed right while choosing their position on the platform? Who has the first choice of seats? Yet still no one complains about the lack of choice concerning the destination or the time of day. As usual I refuse to play this game. Even though I make my way, just as everybody else, in to the milking shed voluntary and on my own power but without haste and a certain amusement about the importance of a window seat while the journey will carry you only through darkness. So I wait and let others be the first, take their seats their positions that are needed for their illusion of freedom. I would not bother someone so early in the morning, everybody has their routines, commuters even more so.

My choice is the usual one, or should I rather say my own personal illusion of freedom, is not looking for a seat to sit but for a spot to be. Whenever you are in a commuters train you will see that the luggage rack is usually empty unless I sit and sleep there, reading or writing, or creating with closed eyes my own darkness,  I fill it with my own colors just as a canvas. Fifteen minutes through the early night. People are so engulfed in their own traditions that rarely someone notices. Just a commuters morning.

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commuter morning

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