Metro

Whining trains wrapping all around with deafning noise and people walking here and there with quick steps, non-stop, quick motion.
Their minds do not let them see each other,
their eyes are open but close to see within, close to see around.
Old people walking slowly with walking sticks, perhaps carrying heavy burdens within, that make their backs bend arch-like.
Burdens that have blured the brightness in their eyes, leaving room for a saddened stare, and yet other eyes do not seem to care, do not seem to see their pain and solitude inside.
There goes the cleaning lady, careful of not stepping onto anyone, of not looking at anyone as this might be painful.
Regardless attitude she portrays in every repetitive movement she makes, in every step she takes.
Lost in her thoughtsshe might be, or pesphaps, she is so used so the stern faces around, to the blind eyes around, and hearts hard as stones, that she just no longer cares, or has given in to an inmensity of carelessness, an inmensity of no more seeing beyond.
Perhaps, she has become blind just like the rest of the people getting on and off the wagons, the people walking faster and faster as if an urge of unexplainable necessity has taken over them.
A place in which insensitivity grows bit by bit this seems to be.
A place with whining all around.
A place in which hard steps might muffle the whining of the trains, in which beings lose their nature, their spirituality and become less than walking bodies, deprived of sight, and with digital souls.
Here comes another southbound train to Prospekt Vernadskogo with a new load of fast-pace, soul-blinded beings, so desperate to get rid of that other one who is behind them, desperate to get rid of that miniscule human connection that borns and dies in a matter of seconds, desperate to be blind again, to be insensitive and careless again.
There comes another train, and then another one, and another, and the story repeats itself over and over again, not wanting to die...

9/02/10
RQ
Moscow