This finite life.
This is a note, from several months ago, written as I took the tube to work, as I did every weekday morning, for 22 months.
As I sat on the tube this morning looking blankly into space and listening to the pulsing sound of The XX, I saw a man across from me.
This man, he looked old and tired, yet couldn’t have been more than 35. His face was still youthful, yet he looked old, in a somewhat confused juxtaposed manner.
That’s when I noticed it, he was speaking with some passengers that sat across from him, learning forward, resting himself on his arms. The passengers looked concerned. One of the passengers made a movement with his hand — wiggled his fingers — and although I couldn’t here the conversation, I too knew that there was something wrong.
The man felt his wrist, looked down at the floor, then up again. Then, he attempted to wiggle his fingers, like the passenger across from him had just done so.
His fingers moved a little, slowly.
There was something of a fear in his eye.
The train came to a stop — bond street — and the man stood, still looking haggard, and then as doors opened, he got off the train. This today made me realise that the life that we have, and our youthfulness is a very fragile thing indeed. All it takes is a matter of stops on the tube to observe this.
