Actualizado: 19 oct
Today, I got on the subway and didn't get off at my station. "Liverpool Street," announced the off-screen voice. I decided to stay a little longer as I watched a woman a few seats away. I wanted to imagine a story that fit with her pulled-down beret and the makeup smeared by the night's passage, she got off in Leyton. The story I imagined went away with her, and a couple of stations later, I saw my reflection in the window. People were passing by, speaking more languages than I could count. Some looked at me, and others ignored me. I kept looking in case there was a poem to pick up from the floor.
I was in the darkness of a tunnel, several meters below the city, going back and forth without an apparent destination. I didn't know if there were buildings, concerts, or a memorable party above me, whether it was raining, snowing, or the midnight sun. I got off at the next station and took the train back. I looked at myself in the mirror again, reflecting on the stories of that subway car, the misfortunes and the joys that had changed the lives of more than two people. Now, there was nothing left of that; it was just me and the revealing reflection of an arrogant guy heading back to Liverpool Street, again.