Kings Cross. It's a beautiful piece of architecture, when admired from far, but the thought of getting into the underground is already making me nauseous. It is a huge trek getting to the Northern Line, in fact any line in general. What a maze of a station. I wonder if walking to the destination might have been quicker?
Making it to the platform, waiting in impatience for a train that isn't packed enough, so I manage to squeeze in, just as the door slam shut. And then, just like that, I enter a void, a capsule that holds a deathly lull. It takes a while for the eyes to adjust and even longer for the brain to comprehend. I saw before me rows of bodies, their heads bowed down. Some due to the weight of sleep, and others at the pull of their tiny mobile phone screens.
But these are not as strange as the ones with their heads up, and staring beyond the window, into the dark oblivion of black tunnel walls. Those blank eyes. Maybe they are dreaming with their eyes open. A sad dream. There is a still of sadness. Like a rosy drying in the silence of winter, looking up straight, as it grows lifeless. Every now and then, there is a light twitch. And like a yawn, this was spreading. I now see more heads looking up slowly ahead, looking through each other in vacant stares. It's like a disease that's catching up to me. It's a mexican wave, waiting to hit me. In front ot my eyes, people were turning into cold faced zombies, and now only a few bodies away from me.
And then, the train halts and the doors slide open. Not a moment of hesitation I jumped out, and run towards the inner edge of the platform and look back to the see the doors shut. I see them sitting inside looking towards me. But I know they are not looking at me. They are just dreaming with their eyes open. And the zombie train zips past.
So my friends, dust out those old cycles.
Because, if you choose travel by the London underground, you face a huge risk - of turning into a zombie. Take my word for it.
Making it to the platform, waiting in impatience for a train that isn't packed enough, so I manage to squeeze in, just as the door slam shut. And then, just like that, I enter a void, a capsule that holds a deathly lull. It takes a while for the eyes to adjust and even longer for the brain to comprehend. I saw before me rows of bodies, their heads bowed down. Some due to the weight of sleep, and others at the pull of their tiny mobile phone screens.
But these are not as strange as the ones with their heads up, and staring beyond the window, into the dark oblivion of black tunnel walls. Those blank eyes. Maybe they are dreaming with their eyes open. A sad dream. There is a still of sadness. Like a rosy drying in the silence of winter, looking up straight, as it grows lifeless. Every now and then, there is a light twitch. And like a yawn, this was spreading. I now see more heads looking up slowly ahead, looking through each other in vacant stares. It's like a disease that's catching up to me. It's a mexican wave, waiting to hit me. In front ot my eyes, people were turning into cold faced zombies, and now only a few bodies away from me.
And then, the train halts and the doors slide open. Not a moment of hesitation I jumped out, and run towards the inner edge of the platform and look back to the see the doors shut. I see them sitting inside looking towards me. But I know they are not looking at me. They are just dreaming with their eyes open. And the zombie train zips past.
So my friends, dust out those old cycles.
Because, if you choose travel by the London underground, you face a huge risk - of turning into a zombie. Take my word for it.
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