Underground Echoes

This should have been a dream, in finding my way back through this place.

Along the same steel rails, in the same carriages, the same red jacketed staff and the same upholstery on the same occupied seats. It should have been a different time, but it didn't feel like it. Past the towering plant and gaping quarries of the Rugby cement works, past trees and back gardens. The sun shining though the clouds that rose so high into the sky behind the green fields. Until the buildings choked out the trees and smothered the ground.

Just one long fluid motion and these softly spoken voices. Glazed eyes reflecting an infinity in the window glass. Speaking again, in soothing tones. Look after your personal belongings. Apologies about the seats. Shortly be arriving at Euston.

And in that instant, the world condenses around you. You sit bolt upright. Eyes wide open, the sweat beaded on your brow.

The suit and tie might mask you, another faceless individual scurrying around, but you still feel exposed. With all the glass and steel, there are no shadows to hide in. Nowhere to run, with a thousand barriers to go through, and people milling about like cattle, talking in gibberish. Does a needle in a haystack turn up only when you'd prefer it not to? Another kind of trepidation this time. Not of mosaic tiling, or fluorescent glow. Something deeper than closing doors, and more unsettling than rucksacks full of explosives.

By the tube map there was a blind beggar who knew my name, but wouldn't take my silver, warning that it lead only to sorrow. I told him that was why I was offering it to him.

I walked down the escalator. I can hear the stuttering hum ahead of me, growing louder. The ground is shaking. Along the black line, avoiding Green park, and Baker Street, you can escape at Charing Cross. The world stood still every time the doors opened, but nothing happened.

And it seems foolish now. Like stone arches and vaulted ceilings or half forgotten memories of pissing in a field.