My City

5.3.25

I walked through the metro station, looking each passerby in their eyes. The vaulted ceilings above with their magnificent chandeliers’ light reflected back down painted each individual as a portrait to be captured by my eyes in the moment of my glance. The uproar of voices mixed with the thrumming of trains echoed around to create a disharmonious cacophony — what would ordinarily be harsh, distracting noise served as a beautiful backdrop to the sights I beheld. The value of what I saw was the full context of the scene: the rush, the liveliness, the sounds, the expressions, the architecture, the location; absolutely everything.

And what did they think of me? all these people in their hasty turmoil? Who was this stranger standing in the middle of a busy station, looking round in circles, looking each person in the eye? Did any one person stop to wonder what I was doing? Did any one person look at me as they passed me by in the same way I did them? Or was I alone in my lucidity, if lucidity it may dare be called? Perhaps the better question to ask is this: Am I alone in this city — my city?

It is my city because it is my home. It is my city because I live my life here and nowhere else. Because I stop and watch the happenings everywhere I go. It is I who looks up and sees these chandeliers. It is I who considers this discord of sound beauty. The beauty is the context. That I am here and not somewhere else. Because were I somewhere else, then elsewhere would by my home; elsewhere would be my city.

A man dropped his ticket, and society’s breeze blew it away. I watched him chase after it, until it came to a stop at the boot of another man who gently bent down, picked it up, and handed it over. “Thank you,” said the first, embarrassed. The other said nothing. Rather, he returned to his waiting. He returned to staring at the boards overhead, watching the numbers that held meaning only to him. Where was he going? What was he looking for? I would never know. Not unless I went and asked. I could watch him. I could follow him. I could board his train and follow him to his destination. I could shadow him for so long as time would allow. Would I learn anything? Would there be any point? So, to me, the numbers were meaningless.

To the man who dropped his ticket, those numbers told a different story. He waited at another platform. His destination was different — or so I might assume. And now their lives were forever separated. What difference a simple, “Here you are. And where are you headed, might I ask?” might have made. Perhaps they would then have engaged in conversation, learning of one another’s life. Perhaps they would have found common ground upon which a friendship might stand. Or, had the first uttered other words: “Thank you sir; and what’s your name — if I may?” What different world would they have thus created?

The train arrived, the unnamed man stepped on, and I watched him disappear into the world. Another man bumped into my shoulder, walking briskly by. He looked back at me, briefly, the only one to catch my eye. He carried his look of absence quickly away into the swarming crowd. How human he was, to have left a mark upon my world. If only he had apologized. If only he had knocked my possessions out of my hands. If only he had knocked me over. If only the mark he made was more than a passing thought as fleeting as the catching of our eyes.

Bells rang, voices called, footsteps echoed, the air stirred. In a moment of lucidity, a train caught my eye, brought to my attention by its bell. I danced through the oncommers, drifting through the throngs, to alight upon an aisle seat. The vessel quickly filled, all looking down or out with the quiet exception of me.

A family spoke of a journey home. A couple spoke of each other. A woman watched the window. A man read a newspaper. A child glanced about in wonder. I sat on a train. I sat for many hours, watching faces come and go.

My new city was far more quiet. My new home was far more quaint. My new station was far less beautiful. But beautiful it was, nonetheless. Simple structures housed simple features. The lights were harsh and direct, giving everyone the look of being more real. “Do you need help?” Someone asked me as I was turning about, taking in the context anew. “No,” I answered, “do you?” The stranger looked at me in strange confusion, unsure of what to say. At last, he said, “No,” and carried on.

What did I want him to say? What did I wish I had said? Maybe I could have phrased it better: “No, but is there anything with which I can assist you?” But I know my fault, I know what I do wrong. The correct answer is to say, “Yes,” to say, “Could you tell me about this place?” But I don’t care. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to speak to who doesn’t want to speak. So why did I not simply say, “No”? Though is it not more fun this way? How else should I make life in my city?

I would have enjoyed for him to say to me, “Yes, actually, I’ve been travelling around for the past few months, and I find it so incredibly difficult to make meaningful connections with people. Those who I meet in passing are so often just that: passing. They come, and they go, but nobody has any desire to stay. Neither in place nor mind. How easy it would be for people to welcome me into their lives, should they so choose. But nobody chooses. Surely each individual has their own rich world, so rife with meaningful characters that the addition of a stranger is of little value to them. How could we come to not be strangers in a moment of brief passing? How can I be accepted into the world of another who knows nothing about my world? How can I find meaning in a place that is called home to everyone else yet that I know nothing of?”

To which I would reply, “Perhaps this is a conversation for another time and another place. Shall you join me elsewhere? Let us have dinner, a place quiet enough for us to speak in peace, an environment conducive to discussion.”

And the stranger would agree. We would go to dinner, speak for hours, learning of one another’s life, finding common ground upon which our friendship is built, thus making this world just a little smaller.

And the observer would hear me speak and say to me: “You poor soul, do you find yourself an outcast in a world of so many? Do you wander these cities in search of a home, observing its people in search of another? Do you believe that life takes place in the center of a train station? that the fantasies of your mind have any grounding in reality or possibility of reality?”

To which I would reply, “The only thing that I seek is meaning and purpose. It is only my human nature that I wish to share in these human things with other humans. As much as my heart tells my mind who it is that I love without giving me a choice. The choice is made for me, by my heart, not by me. I live without will. I have no power over myself. If I could live my life without love, I would be happy to control my fate. But my heart speaks, and I have no choice but to listen. My life is not my own. I am prisoner to my heart. And if I had not a heart, surely I would be equally woesome to miss out on such human experiences. The matter is not that of fantasy versus reality. It is that of mind versus heart.”

The observer would look at me with sympathy in the eyes and say to me, “Perhaps the meaning and purpose we derive in our lives comes from the conflict that arises from the heart and the mind: that we cannot control the heart and that we must control the mind. And that the process of life is a balancing act between the two that leads us ultimately to a sense of peace independent of our happiness or sorrow, content or discontent, meaning or purpose. That if the heart speaks, the mind must listen. As what the mind perceives, the heart must interpret. Peace is the understanding of the duality of our nature.”

At which point the stranger would interject, “Or, perhaps you are overcomplicating the process. Perhaps life is the acceptance of that which is: being your unapologetic self, using your mind to speak for your heart. Agreeing to experience. Living without fear to let it be known who you are, accepting invitation without worry. Accepting others as they are with the desire to know who they are. So that all strangers may so easily become a friend. That all lands might become a home.”

And the three of us would look at one another, not knowing who is right or who is wrong. Not knowing what to make of any other’s ideas. We would sit in long silence, taking in the beauty of the scene: the candlelit room in which we would sit, sharpening our contemplative expressions in the darkness of night. We would sit and eat in silence. Though we would neither speak nor glance at one another, we would be at peace with the knowledge that our individual minds turn the same gears — that the lack of conclusion is our solidarity.

But in the moment, the stranger walks his path away. I watched him walk along the length of the station until he was long out of sight. I stared down the path, now empty, mind filled with thoughts wandering as much as I was. In one day alone, I had seen so many people with so many lives. The question I never asked was: Where is mine?

So I walked, admiring the simplicity of the station until my attention was caught by the sounding of a bell. I boarded the train with few passengers scattered here and there, taking a seat in the isle. In the vast darkness outside, all that was visible were the reflections of the subdued interior, air filled by gentle thrumming.