The Moving Theater

Brief encounters - Public transport, private stories.

"People are the best show in the world. And you don’t even pay for the ticket."

- Ernest Hemingway

I love commutes within the city. Especially taking metro trains. There’s something about them that is so painstakingly temporary that it makes me feel a sense of comfort and discomfort at the same time. The zoning out and snapping back to reality with the not so subtle stop of the train. Coming across people who look exactly like someone you know and for a second, contemplating saying hello. The fashion choices. The whispers. The camaraderie of regular travelers gives me the warmth of a slow burning candle. The quiet belief that if anything were to happen, these acquaintances would guard me, if not save me. 

Among everything else you could do on a ride, one of my favorite pastimes is observing strangers. I guess we all do it whether we like it or not. Social psychology dictates an element of pleasure associated with voyeurism. What is it about human behavior that is so fun to watch? Personally, I make up stories in my head about these everyday strangers. I wonder what they are like outside of the rush hour dynamics. Outside of the weary faces. At the end of the day, are they happy to go home or are they wishing for the metro to never stop? Did they have a good day or do they need a hug? Sometimes, some unexpected encounters during these fleeting moments also have the potential to change the course of your life. 

I once sat next to a middle-aged woman. She looked tired and weak. She was on a phone call with her kids. I was surprised to see how kindly she was talking to her babies after all the trials of the day. Apparently her new boss is a pain. But there was not even a hint of impatience or irritation in her voice. The courage it must take to be soft in a world so harsh. Then there was another younger woman who was talking to her father-in-law, promising him that she’ll take care of him. I wonder what the man offered to her that she so tenderly offered back to him. I look at all these people and realise everything I could be. The in sensitivities, the empathies. The bizarre thing is I might not ever see them again and they will never realise the impact they had on me. 

While I watch and admire all these social interactions filled with unspoken conversations, I also feel eerily aware of the same thing happening to me.

Do people look at me and find parts of themselves? Do they carry fragments of me through their day and further on to their lives? Do lovers think I’m lonely? Am I a day-dreamer to the hopeful soul? Am I a lost traveler to the adventurous one? Or perhaps just the exhausted worker to an innocent child. Do I blend along with the colors or am I somebody’s muse? I’ll never know.

Images & videos from: Cosmos