I remember a time when I found the daily commute dehumanising.
I was one of millions who’d scrabbled out of bed, bloodshot and gasping, undertaking a circadian ritual of wash/brush/swallow before dragging my under-nourished carcass to my local railway station to fight with the other millions for one uncomfortable seat. We’d sit there, judging each other by our choice of author, sighing angrily at the noisy schoolkids and mentally preparing ourselves for the onslaught of disappointment and stress that we were inevitably to endure for the next eight to twelve hours before fighting each other for that single fucking seat again.
I felt like nothing. I really was one of millions. I found my job stressful and all-consuming and that daily commute was like a death march I had to complete five distressing days per week so that I could make enough money to sustain the kind of lifestyle that I didn’t even have the energy to live out anymore.
But I can’t relate to that feeling anymore. Sure, some of my stress now lies in money worries, but it’s a fraction of the overall stress I experienced before.
Now on my daily commute I look at all the furrowed brows shadowing pairs of downcast eyes and I remind myself of how lucky I am. Yes, I’m one of the millions that undertake the ritual. Yes, I have to push my way - with thousands of other people - through doors, through turnstiles, up narrow escalators.
But I’m an imposter. My unsmiling face is a liar. I don’t hate my life; I love my life. I don’t hate my job, either. I don’t even hate the daily commute anymore. I own my time and I own my happiness and I’ll forever own the knowledge that I am no longer one of the unhappy millions and never will be again.
excellent post, love this. not many people seem to have a healthy grasp of relativity and the first world.
(Source: amplifiedjournaling)
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