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The Metro is a Stranger

The door slides open. Mind the gap. You step inside the machine, and all the faces you witness are familiar, and this is the first sign, the only sign – that all you ever knew as sacred is now strange to you. Cologne from your armpits, to cover the humanity of the vessel you are, an animal pretending to be a man. Writing down fragments, fragment by fragment. Fragments transformed into tombs. Ideas forced dead stacked vertically through the rooms of a mausoleum. Your ash, your ideas, discarded because no one cares. Not even you. You sit down. The vessel is not that crowded. The hum from a pod, through a headset a voice hums; “So far away from home. So far away from love. So far. So far.” And then you realize. You realize it’s you. You sitting there with the pod on your lap, and the voice now screaming something you can’t face, not here, not now. You are outside yourself now. From now on. From then on the metro is a stranger. The metro is you, it’s you – wired up constantly, it’s you – trying to find another tune, and it’s you writing, deleting and then rewriting the message to “your loved one.” Am I enough? Metal air. Will the world once and for all be pleased with me? The air is like metal, and everything is opaque. Do I belong? No one ever prepared you for this at primary school. No one knew what this was, what this is. It wasn’t invented yet. You dream of nature, but the stream in which you’re swimming in is only an idea materialized through the electrons in your mind, and when you snap out of it, reality as they call it, is even harder. Hard like metal. Smell like metal. Metal everywhere. Mental overkill. Metal hemisphere. Mental stagnation. Metal piercing through your gut forcing you to leave, leave the vessel, and run, run, run. To the sacred place. You wrap yourself inside textiles. You allow the sand of time to flow through your fingers. Reflections come and then reflections leave you simultaneously. Something like peace streams through you. A sigh from the depth of your lounges. You find your keys. Deep in your pocket. You dive into your own pocket. Head first. In front of your door, to the apartment, you freeze. The smell. The smell of forgotten dreams, of unmade bed sheet, of nuclear family as a non possibility. This alarms you and calms you simultaneously. In the kitchen, on the table, a book. You pick it up. All the letters are unreadable, intangible, unprecedented. They are not for you. The words are for them, the men, on the metro. The book is a stranger. Sleep. Sleep will relieve you, eliminate you, and soothe you. Force you down on the universal knees where your mental landscape is pleased, and metal is a memory, a smell only known through the book, which you left, on the table. Science fiction. This is ease, this is it, and this is being pleased. Quietly you forget everything. There are no needs. Finally you’re free to feel as you please. No judgment, no praise, no strangers peeking through holes in the sky, or through tired faces at dawn on the metro. These feelings are valid, they seem soothing, and they keep you in a shiver which reminds you of tangled teen, and playful, dull childhood. No clouds, no barriers, no pyramids, nor labyrinths. The textiles caressing you are transparent and spotted, and transcendent. The city swiftly fades to black. Light by light, every lamp is turned into unusable bulbs, until they explode in your hands, shimmering like gold, or more like crystal, like the enigma you once were so pleased to be. The metro is a stranger, but now it’s vaporized, and inside of this you find ease, you find calm, warmth and unity. You’re at ease. No meetings, no network, no words, no worlds. All just fading past, unforeseeable future and a constant flow of now. You are unyou. You are nonyou. You are becoming. No longer an idea, never again a transformer, not a terminator, barely a performer, not a pleaser. Not a quiz. Not a squeezer. You’re an eraser and an easer. An easer of chaos, an eraser of meaning – an easer in peace, pacing pleased through the room which protects you. Calm is your method and chaos your father. No need to leave or let this someone leave you. Nature is you. You’re finally and exclusively the spark of a deep calm inside a stranger, which is you. Born anew. At that moment of pure and piercing pleasure the door cracks open, and the entire world; history, its enormity, its unforgiveable inconsistency confronts you. Finding no resonance in your pale face even time gives up, and you’re free to be me. I’m standing here watching you, confronting you, the new me. You. Exchanged. My heart sinks grasping that you finally allowed me to write you, in rush, on a single page – then leave you be. Please mock me, or stack me inside your archive of lousy letters. I told you my attempt was to convey what goes through a heart on any given day, in the transformation we effortlessly go through: The stranger –which is the metro, the city, the apartments we live in and the doctrines we cling to – passing us through landscapes constructed by minds and mines and chimeras and the ongoing – forever lasting struggle against chaos. The metro is me. It’s you too. The duvet is you, your phone is you too, all you’ve ever seen, ever caressed, whatever distressed you. Is you. History a tail you swing when solitude gets wings. You use it to make the pressure stagnate softer. So this is the new you. The new you whispers; what to do? He turns towards the mirror. In the reflection shapes appear, moving closer as he grasps; kaleidoscopic view, the view is you. The vista – a landscape of faces whispers: Now you have to prove yourself, not to them, not to him, not to the public or to your self which is no longer present, and your proofs will be evaluated by something unheard of, an abstract and enormous entity, which presence will turn your skin into a landscape of Goosebumps. One you multiply. One, two, three you. The choirs of you softly sing: We are forgiven angels with dirty faces. We are the in-betweens. We are veridis quo. We are sweet inertia. We are time filled with time. We are the curious.