Random Moods and Brief Moments of Introspection

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be? " --John Keating aka Robin William (in a friend's away message...I had to quote it)

Coming home on the late train again tonight after a productive evening, I was, as usual on these commutes, in quite the introspective mood. Two observations to share:

a) There's a gentlemen whose path I've been crossing quite frequently these past weeks. Whenever I stay late at the office, he seems to always be at the same bus stop waiting for the old 63... and he gets off at the same stop, although we head off in different directions. Identifying traits that leave him blazoned in my memory? African about my height with a Carhart jacket and Yankees cap--always, without fail. Next time, I'm going to have to say hello--maybe I'll find out a bit about his story. I've even seen him on the Jubilee line the full length that I ride.... It's just a curious thing, how are lives can become synchronised with total strangers, and I'm of a mind to find out how and why.... if we're all random dots, bouncing around, there's bound to be some that journey in parallel, if only for a while, but it'd be curious to find out about this briefly-parallel track. Individual stories, woven together in a strange and terrible fashion.

b) Then we come to those stories that don't weave together, those people that capture our fascination and then disappear...this is the story of the tube, especially late at night, when you begin to wonder when someone sits down next to you or across from you, whether they might actually want to make eye contact and have a conversation for once (it's not the London way...it's an unspoken rule you can't look at each other--tell tale way to spot the Americans--they're the loud boisterous ones gaily glancing about). But we get these brief signs of humanity--and I at least rarely reach out--after all, in 5 or 10 minutes, they're whisked away forever, and you're left standing on the platform. It happens for all types, strange snippets of foreign tongues, a particularly striking appearance, piercing eyes--all these fascinating characters are whipped away in the underground, never for me to see again.

And so I close my dual epiphanies, abbreviated though they be. One tells a tale of lifes in superficial parallel, the other, of strange perpendicularities....

Good night, sweet readers, I'm off: asleep, perchance to dream.


EDIT: Then there's that interesting 3rd group that seems to twist and turn independently and continuously intersect your life at odd intervals and unexpected moments...good and bad, thrilling and upsetting.