BLOODSHED.

Recently I obtained a nasty gash/wound/battle scar while on the train. And since you’re reading anyway, I’m gonna tell you all the gory details.

It happened one hot hot hot summer morning in the Cubao platform. Temperatures were up as the trains were all packed and it took a long while before you can board a train. Most of the people were cranky so early in the morning. But who could blame them? The crowds were thick and dense, trains were late, the sweltering heat breeds discomfort, and everybody was sweaty. It would get to your nerves.

I went to the side of the throng, where, from experience, I knew I could successfully wedge myself into the train’s sliding doors. If you’re a good wedger, this position and attack works more than the layering up from behind the crowd, as if in line. No dear, that’s old school. This technique works, but only for the skilled few (ahem). Listen to my tip, and sooner you train yourself, the nearer you’ll be to enlightenment.

So I was there, ready to squeeze into the first train to arrive in the station. When it arrived, I heaved myself, prepared for war, and dove in.

Pressure. From. All. Sides.
Cannot. Breathe.
Must. Get. Oxygen.
Must Get. Into. Train.

Bang.

I’m inside.

I lifted my head to inhale. Some people were still ramming themselves in, so I moved deeper inside the train. While moving in, some lady was being bratty and was complaining loudly about the people who were stuffing themselves into the train even when there’s no space left. But then again, she only voiced out the thoughts of those already boarded on the train. Irritation was evident all over the faces of those who were already inside the train, desperation was in the ones trying to get in.

That’s the mood. This is how I got the wound.

As I was moving into the deeper bowels of the train, I scraped my elbow on some lady’s bag/brooch/zipper/random sharp object. I knew it was something of hers that because she did not move at all as I squished into the crowd. She was more resistant to movement. If she swayed with the crowd, the bag/brooch/zipper/random sharp object would have moved along with her, which means I would not have cut myself. But she defied it.

I’m accusing a stranger, she’s guilty until proven innocent, I know, but I have a wound, motherfreakers, I HAVE A WOUND!!!

What about my flawless arms? What about my dreams of becoming a flight stewardess? Of being an elbow model?

Motherfreakers.

The train is a battle field. The red cut on my left elbow proves it all.

The train is sometimes a lonely place.

I mean, in a bus, you’d inevitably have to talk to the bus conductor. In a jeep, you’re face to face with a whole bench of people and would either need to hand their fare, or for them to hand yours. But the train is all steel that absolutely makes it unnecessary for you to interact with people if you choose to. “Miss, isang Cubao” is the most you can muster. From the moment you get in until the moment you get out, there is a series of highly mechanized machine-ized systems that spares you the effort of talking to anyone. Most you can do is watch, if you’re one for observation, or shut the world out, if you’re one for apathy. You can even face the windows if you don’t want to see the people inside the train.

Even when you’re being pressed on all sides by people, you’re alone.

I dunno, I guess sometimes I’m just sad. And the train is conductive to solitude.