Tuesday, September 3, 2013


Human density, conglomerated pell mell, meets the eye. Decades of misted breath floats around, casting an imperceptible net over the massed physiognomies. Spaces to sit are cluttered and unmistakably  unapproachable so you stand by the corner. The mist outside has left the windows opaque. As a gloved forefinger rubs at the frame a sliver of perspective is discerned, an endless vista of houses, fields, roads receding and advancing, attenuated and concentrated. A wan, pale gleam of sunlight is ineffectual in rending the fog. Filaments of luminosity emerge fitfully, are rendered momentarily conspicuous and then, with startling immediacy snuffed out only to emerge again.

Within is the artificial light of the neon illumining countenances with yellowish light so that the variagated compendium of flesh, the ripple of individuality underpinning the collective , the mottled, striated faces gleam luridly yet palely, bleached of color. Here an old man reposes with criss crossed  veins,tinged bluish green, streaking his gnarled face while there stands a woman attired in a suit, reapplying lipstick and adjusting the folds of her coat. Her suit is impeccably contoured with no loose thread. Though she looks threadbare at the prospect of replicating, yet again, unvarying stipples of the quotidian.

However, the intentness, the singularity of rending the day, of slicing it up into segmented, rational portions , of plunging into the daily business of loving counterpoints the lassitude and ennui of the travelers. Routine abrades them, oft repeated patterns enervates them and the circuitous labyrinth of  ending at the beginning and beginning at the end robs them of vitality and vigor. Not all denizens of this subterranean hinterland evince the same stoicism. Few countenances are suffused with optimism, pulsating to the pulse and throb of possibilities unmet, potentialities untapped.

Becoming constitutes this tableau vivant. Each member in this ever shifting, transitory charmed circle is configuring himself into multifarious combinations. Being is a palimpsest over which self created narrative story is being written and authenticated. Iridescent affirmation of living, of being in itself counterpoints the jaded, beleagured discomfitures of the here and now. A performance is being practiced, for the benefit, both of crystallizing identity and reaffirming it. As the metro tunnels underground decades of human attrition, over the accreted grime of the railings, the faded upholstery and the peeling posters  and the entropy and reconstitution of human life proceeds unceasingly and desultorily on. 

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