An indispensable conduit

by Marianne Cashin (Australia)

Making a local connection United Kingdom

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Every day it is the same. The same smells. The same sounds. The same battle. A mechanical presence amongst the very vein of this thriving metropolis. Inch by inch it penetrates the sub-dermis as a silent and dutiful partner. Distributing a complementary assortment of unique odours with each passage. Noses stifled by the engine oil. Electrical smells that are borne on the warm winds with each stroke. A sewerage scent that haunts, and lingers. A brief insight into the unspoken and unavoidable. A pleasant fragrance mercifully collides. A brief reprieve. A passing home to an eclectic cluster of the overworked, weary, and exhausted minds juxtaposed against the energetic, and fresh-faced, jetlag notwithstanding, travellers. A haven to some, a means to many. In its simplicity lies its beauty. A sanctuary of silence that is both invited, yet unconsciously demanded. The silence does not ask you to fill that void. The calm remains both eerie, yet peaceful. It stands content in its acknowledged duty. Shifted underground by the moderate, unilateral wave of commuters. The gentle rocking sets in motion the observation of this capital’s inhabitants. The expectant mother who stands only momentarily before the ‘Baby on board’ badge flickers, delivering an unspoken guidance intended for the neighbouring fares. A three-piece suit, an umbrella, and a signet ring arises. Presumably, a man of the City, who likely endures the daily challenge of morals and ethics of the City elite, does not employ any hesitation here. A rare smile etched on the face of a commuter, as he happily surrenders his warm seat. A recent father perhaps. School children hop on and off this carousel as it traverses, supplying to the vast expanse overhead. Suddenly, an unwelcome shove from behind, a lateral jab. Clamouring for space. The internal monologue inspiring towards a steady bearing. Your terminus nears. Experience takes stock. Timing is imperative. Disentangling and weaving. Carving a path from within the labyrinth itself. As you disengage from this arterial web of silence, emerging into the irresistible hive above, one must simply remember to ‘Mind the gap’.