On the Subway

*It feel so weird, the essay just shoots all over the place.... haha.

The ground is rattling. A distant voice calls; this station is Namtaeryung, Namtearyung…

Almost there. I can’t sleep, I might miss my station. I blankly stare at the people come and go. They go by, paying no attention to me or anybody. Blank faces, blank gestures. Whenever I am surrounded by a group of strangers, I feel loneliness, more than when I am actually alone. It's like an unimaginable glass wall exists between the people and separate them. And I miss people. I wish I had someone beside me. Instead, I concentrate on the heat from the bottom and the thick red muffler around my neck. The heat of the heater slowly slithers upward, surrounding my body. I roll my body and bury my face deeper into the muffler. This haggard piece of wool is something my grandfather gave me as a birthday present. Grandpa. his feeble smile, shaggy white hair, and harsh wrinkled hand flash inside my head. His face, I’ve never seen in almost four years, I’ll never see in my lifetime.

My eyesight is getting all blurred now, so I cut out my thoughts. I mean, I can't just cry in a subway full of people; it would be a harm to everybody! To stem my stream of consciousness, I grab a book from my backpack- Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell, my favorite English novel. There are scribbles all over the place- my impressions, sudden ideas, related issues… although I have read this story many, many times, the story feels different every time, as I mature every moment. My handwriting is pretty messy, I can’t even read my notes clearly, but it doesn’t matter. I value the scribbling itself. 

However, not even the “I love you” note from Julia or the fascinating theory of O’Brien can capture my attention for the moment. After a few unfruitful attempts to grasp the meaning of the sentence, not just the pronunciation, I close the book. The blue pupil on the cover looks at me accusingly, but I just stuff it into my backpack. I catch a glimpse of my own eyes reflected on the window. The underground is all black, turning the window into a mirror. Out of boredom, I make funny faces at the mirror- grimacing, smiling, wining, surprised. My friends always say that my facial expressions are kind of a mystery; they could never figure out what I was thinking. I giggle at the twisted face. At that moment, I meet someone else’s eyes. I freeze of embarrassment.

I slowly detach my hands from my face and turn around. An old man with a wrinkled face and soft white hair is smiling at me, looking quite amused. Suddenly, I feel like I was cordially accepted into this whole unfamiliar world. I slightly blush and smile back. I think of my grandfather again. How were his last few moments of his life like? What kind of regrets did he have? How does he feel, now that he transferred to the heaven, probably? I am happy for him, for I know he has gone to a better place. Still, I miss him. I wish, I wish, that I could guard his transfer.

           But for now, it is time for me to transfer. How life would have been much easier, if only you could stay at one train and still get to the destination! But it’s not that easy; I can’t just sit down and sleep along the way. Every subway, bus, train, airplane, bicycle, even feet has its distinct quality, a virtue of its own. 

Throughout my 17 years of life, I have had many transfers. I attended so many schools and lived in so many houses that a process of transfer seems so familiar to me. Familiar, yet, of course, new every time. Although transfer does require a bit of adjustment and rattling, it allows you to see a different world, a different perspective, a different route. I like the changes brought by a transfer. And often times, transfer is the only way you can get to your destination. So I stand up and head towards the door, towards the station, towards another subway line- another little transfer for me!