South Kensington

An ode to the London Underground

I walk, surrounded by the sounds of buskers, the sight of husks of people sleeping bags cocooning bodies.

Sights, sounds, and feelings send me reeling with awe, the shock of a flaw in such a magical city overflows my mind.

Voices pull me back, flush with the rush of normal people bustling, by, accustomed to hustling by and ignoring “Homeless and Hungry — Please can you help?”

Imagine living a life dependent on the giving of strangers facing the dangers of heat, cold, and sickness with only a blanket and cardboard sign.

Playing a flute in a putrid underground tunnel people funneling by with glassy, uncaring eyes thinking ‘maybe if I had smaller change’.

I pause before art, tiny wooden statues laid art on dusty blankets, and should I buy a polished lion or butterfly just to feel better? I don’t meet his eyes.

And we walk surrounded by din, unease winding serpentine within our minds, I can’t seem to shake this white noise as I take step after step, wondering why but never stopping to wonder why.

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