The Journey

The Journey

8.44: The start of the journey.

The train is going north; thirty three minutes to traverse the city. Queues on the road are apparently backed up all the way into another county. I’m sitting smugly in the next station writing this.

It feels good.

We’re all on a journey – with no intercourse apparently. Nobody would dream of speaking to you and asking where you are going or start a philosophical conversation. Perhaps they ought to put an existential comment on that red flashing message board to get everyone thinking. If only they had time to pick their heads off the floor.

All these people, embroiled in their own lives, oblivious to the company other than a fleeting glance away from their papers or the omnipresent mobile devices that eradicate the tedium of a daily trip.

Next station. We’re all on a journey.

I love travelling on trains. Perhaps it is the certainty, with tracks laid and no possible diversion other than a huge catastrophic calamity. Yet I love the freedom of my car too; such liberty that I could never have envisaged. Sometimes we need guidance on our journey. Other times we need to travel freely, independently, exploring places that we did not know existed and would never be able to find unless we divert away from the course that has been set. I wonder about the places that I pass through that I may never divert towards.

The Metro newspaper is still popular – more snippets of life. More journeys.

Suits in trainers, blue ones at that. Stieg Larsson still dominates the literary communte. “The Girl Who Played With Fire”.

Don’t we all on our journeys?

A new station. This area is the new bohemia according to local artists, poets and the like. Vegetarian bistros are popping up, with cafe culture in full flow, spilling prams and yummy mummy’s onto the crowded pavements.

I started my teaching career here in a school that nobody wanted to be in. Its soul was very well hidden. I wonder what it is like now.

Alight here for the college, says the announcement. Fresh faced hopefuls alight.

What are they teaching them at college these days? How are these people continuing on their professional journey? Is the college optimistic, revolutionary, visionary? Or is it a college that is churning out a factory fodder of automatons who will resolutely adhere to the ill advised governance of the day?

Vince Cable keeps saying that his party had to join a coalition “for the good of the country”. It’s almost become his mantra like the character in the “House of Cards” – “ You may say that. I couldn’t possibly comment”. It’s as though he is trying to persuade himself as well as us that he had chosen the right pathway, the correct journey. Will he be true to his values? Can they be maintained? Is governance all that he hoped?

Sarah Keys? Whatever happened to Sarah Keys? I wonder what they are all doing now, where their journeys have taken them; Cecil, Sarah and baby Fleur. Was that her name?

Mass exodus at the next station. The suit with blue trainers has gone, as has the young woman next to me who struggled to avert her eyes from what I was writing; my cursive style becoming deliberately more erratic as the journey progressed, shielding my thoughts from wandering eyes.

How often do we shield our thoughts on our journey? How often do we let go?

How often are we honest enough with the people that we care about?

Next stop. Nothing happens here. More life changes, I suppose.

According to statistics, as a male, you are likely to die seventeen years earlier here than in other parts of the city. Why is that? Short journeys in this neck of the woods. Do short journeys mean less thinking time?

Into the new life. Journeys along.

Passing through places where people were ill prepared to journey into advanced technology. Badly handled.

Fuck Murdoch. Seems Vince Cable is trying to.

Light and dark on this journey, just as in life. Best to embrace and deal with both extremes.

I wish I could take my camera out of my bag and capture some of the solemnity on this train?

Is the world really this horrible?

What joy have we forgotten to grasp?

MUST go to that museum. MUST do that!

Do earphones mute everything? Do they cut out and disconnect? Or are they used to provide time for meditation or be an enabler for floating off into nothingness? Do they reverberate with passion and appreciation of a musical delight particular to one person?

Why are they announcing security issues at this station? Is it a particularly dangerous area? Are there more pick-pockets per square mile here than anywhere else in the vicinity?

There’s lots of trainers. Everyone is wearing trainers. Suit Number 2 alights here. He’s been staring at me. People who write probably need to be stared at. Weirdos.

What do all these people do? Where are they going? Am I going to meet them again on another journey, a longer one?

It’s bright outside. Silver cars, silver buildings capture and reflect the light. White tags. Unusual buildings. Less people now.

What is happening here today? Anything? Or does a Thursday at the beginning of November have nothing special to offer?

I suddenly wish I was in the West Country for a few days of recuperation; reading, writing, walking, talking, hugging, sleeping.

Where did that suddenly come from?

The penultimate stop – this means that this miniscule journey in my life is nearly over.

But are journeys ever over? Should they be? Shouldn’t we always be travelling?

The place is full of yellow brick, smothered by centuries of dirt.

I like bricks. They tell good stories.

Arrived. Partial arrival and time for a walk.