A book in her hand, she sat engaged in thoughts. In thin air, she stared at the ghosts of yesterday. The train moaned with a penetrating rhythm, and drowned in an ominous obscurity the ruckus of its inhabitants. The tunnel is not a poetic dark abyss, but a gateway to past and memories, those which refuse to be lost in oblivion, and resurface in spurts to announce their voluminous upheavals.
To travel is a journey inside.
She had been warned against reliving that which was gone, been advised to move ahead and close the zipper of silence on her baggage, which she single handed tugged along, painstakingly, nurturing hope that when she finds them, those who open it, they shall but show her the mirror hiding inside. She craved for acceptance of that-which-she-was-not-to-speak-of, of voicing her anger, and to heal her wounds.
The train halts, a frantic man boards it only to find his compartment full. He pushes through unrelenting children and angered mothers, finds his seat, wakes up a man sleeping on it, and sits by the window. He puts on his headphones, to be drowned into silence by music. In those incredulous lyrics he might find an answer for questions he dare not ask. He looks at her and smirks, another one of those psychopaths, he convinces himself with an easy lie.
Miles away, a rowdy man makes his way through the maddening traffic. Be it a vehicle or a human, he sees them all as one “Silent Victims”.