Creative
The rhythmic sound of the wheels of the train seemed to be synchronised with the tapping of my foot. The consistency in the sound lulled me into the recesses of my mind allowing me to think of the occurrences of the past couple of weeks, but before I could even think, I was lurched out of my subconscious state of mind by the sudden sound of a horn, and the cool air that hit my face when the doors proceeded to open. I watched the many people that clambered in to the train and the many others who were pushing their way out, but once everyone had settled normality was established again and I found myself listening to the sound of the wheels on the tracks again. I took an interest in the people who had settled around me, they all varied in age and colour, the language they spoke and the clothes they wore. It made me wonder how they could all be human but all be different. How they could actually define themselves as different from each other though they were structurally the same. I watched them going about their own business, oblivious to the being beside them, oblivious to everything around them they were either staring into their laps or into their phones, laptops and what not. It was as if a curse was placed on them to never communicate with one another, but they were still connected somehow. At the next stop I watched as two people clambered onto the train, an old man, his withered hands holding onto a splintered walking stick and the fingers of a young girl who could not have been older than six. The man repeatedly told the child to be cautious while getting on the train, once boarded, she told the man to stop treating her as if she was a baby, she reminded him that she now went to school and therefore knew how the world worked. In response the old man only smiled and shook his head, making his way to the seating, the young girl following behind. I could not help but be intrigued by the old man’s hands, they were wrinkled and the lines on his palms were manifold compared to the young girls which were smooth and running circles along his palm. If anything the patriarch’s hands had achieved a degree of ancientness worthy of veneration, they reflected his life, the callouses showed the hard work he had done, but the smoothness, that texture in the middle of his palm could only be achieved by the many instances he had taken care of his children and grandchildren, rubbing cream and dusting powder onto their skin, hoping it would stay soft and as beautiful in the coming years, hoping they remained his dolls to take care of. I turned away when I heard the whimper of a woman beside me, her shirt clung to her bump and I could tell she was holding back pain, she looked at the man beside her, he nodded and they stood ready to get off at the next station. I stared at the way she caressed protruding stomach as if it was the most precious thing in the world, but the grimace on her face and the sweat starting to form on her forehead forebode her oncoming pain. I wondered why she would go through such strife to bear something that would cause her so much pain, she hardly looked the age to be carrying such a burden anyway and the boy beside her looked as scared as she was in pain. But the loving looks that they passed each other and the continual caressing of the bump made me realise that though they didn’t have anyone else they had each other. Love, it was a funny thing that humans felt much like their need for friendship, it was funny because in the end they wouldn’t have needed it after all. Why go through pain and misery to feel and uphold something that will only give you