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[mks_dropcap style=”letter” size=”52″ bg_color=”#ffffff” txt_color=”#000000″]W[/mks_dropcap]e emerge out of a tunnel and the lights fade back up, like daylight approaching too fast. The regular heartbeat of the tracks turns hypnotic, a metronome tick willing me to sleep. The sky outside is not quite light, that semi-grey between sleep and awake, and I have to look away as it makes my head hurt. It’s still hot even for the time of day. We go over a bridge and it makes me feel like I’m floating, so I focus on the dull gunmetal of the floor, the monotone blue of the seats that have chunks of foam exposed by years of bored kids looking to make a mark. Everything in the carriage is neutral. The floor, the walls, the adverts, the passengers. As if the grey sky has intruded in and swamped the entire world. All of us in the carriage sway gently in time with the train. It’s as if we’re dancing. Six of us, including me, head to our destination, but I can’t recall where that is exactly. An old man stares into the distance through the window, rubbing the back of his hand. What I think is a family of three in a booth, the young parents arguing, the child opposite them propping his elbows on the counter, watching me silently. They all look familiar, but I realize this is because I’m overlaying my own family onto them, except I don’t remember what my family looks like. They feel like a dream that you wake from, unable to recall. They are generic passengers, and I think I could walk to the next carriage and probably see the same.
[su_quote]”This axe,” says the lumberjack, “used to belong to my grandfather. Sure, I may have replaced the head three times, and the handle twice, but it’s still his axe.”[/su_quote]
[mks_dropcap style=”letter” size=”58″ bg_color=”#ffffff” txt_color=”#000000″]T[/mks_dropcap]here is an ant on the keyboard, and every time I press space, this ant gets jostled around. Every word is another bounce that he can’t comprehend. It’s doubtful he would even question it. This is the way the world is to him. But I like to think that he’ll head back to the nest eventually and go to sleep (I presume ants sleep, even if it’s just a power nap), and while asleep the tiniest sliver of that minuscule brain will try to interpret the day for him, try to reason the bounce of the space bar, and he’ll dream of the ocean. He’ll dream of the break of the waves as he leaves the shore, of the slow metronome roll from the swells of the deep. Maybe he’ll dream of an ocean so still it looks like glass. The ant, with his small size and tiny limbs barely denting the surface tension, would see water as a solid anyway. On such a clear sea he could walk across the whole world.