Twilight

The usual brown scrunchie in her hair, a dingy little bag slung at her front. Black diminutive sneakers that she wears. I see her every morning, wonder if she realises that. She takes a few steps forward, and the doors slide open. Habits are hard to change, aren't they? I take the same spot every morning. She too. She leans her head against the glass, and I do the same. Across me, a mirror image. I'm falling fast asleep, the music in my ipod segueing from rock to slow, the train swaying lightly as though it has no wheels beneath. Occasional rocking back and forth, like a merciful lullaby. I look at the row of seats a few metres away. Fully occupied. Shoulder to shoulder. All eyes closed. Oblivious to the distracting blare coming from those speakers. It makes me sad to see the world so tired. World including myself. Because we know ultimately all that we have on Earth, we can't take them to our graves. If I were one of those naive girls who believed in magic, I'd wish for the world to remain in dark forever. That way, we never have to wake up. That way, the resigned expressions on our faces will never be exchanged. That way, there will be no reflection to see ours for ourselves.