Through smog-speckled glass panes and walls, solid, impersonal, as stamps of concrete power, stale air pushes through the tunnels of the underground like the sickly breath of angry, wandering spirits. Below, snaked pipes hum and voices press the compressed, rigid atmosphere, tense enough to set alight; there is not a flicker of fire, light, life in the eyes of those who pass through. Mechanical and disinterested in the rest of world – minds, eyes, bodies set on their destinations.
The tube is a crossing point for thousands of self-interested lives, entwined for those petty, precious moments they are physically forced to acknowledge the existence of others’, realising where they are and look in the eyes of those whom they are face to face with on that minute ride to Leicester square. Petty, precious moments.
WIP ~ a small fragment of writing from the beginning of a story that I’m currently writing, except it begins in first person. I’m particularly interested in the psychology and morality of humans and their motives for actions, whether they be bad or good, and I hope to explore that aspect. I’m just experimenting. I’m extremely self-conscious and closed about my writing, especially my actual stories.