Reflections on the puddle of life

Disquiet

Sometimes I think I will never leave Rua dos Douradores.
Once written down, that seems to me like an eternity. ~ Fernando Pessoa

Sometimes I think I will never leave this train.
Imagine: days, years stretched out like a tube,
glued to the same blue, geometrically patterned seat,
hurtling somewhere between Manchester and Chorley.
Once written down, that seems to me like an eternity.

Seeing the same sea of faces every day.
Even the new ones behave in old, familiar ways.
Pointing like kids to the window as though they’d
never seen a building before; or crammed by the door,
forlorn with the watchful sadness of the near-seated.

I wonder what will happen when I’ve seen everything
there is to be seen? Books, newspapers, magazines
unravel into one continuous string of Ariel, font size 10.
What then? When even ‘guess the contents of the Primark bag’
grows dull; and the conductor, whilst exciting, is fleeting.

I could read all the signs and health and safety warnings.
I’d become an expert in what to do in the event of an emergency,
the location of fire extinguishers, the toilets, CCTV.
The National Conditions of Carriage would no longer be a mystery
to me. I may develop ambitions to become the voice of apology:

‘We apologise for the endless running of this service
and any inconvenience it may cause you.’

Perhaps this train will become such a part of me, that
the thought of leaving it will be like contemplating suicide.
Perhaps this journey is all there is, and all there will ever be.
Perhaps it’ll be no surprise when I fall to my knees in
the aisle and scream: ‘Hello. It’s me. I’m on the train.’