Notebook of a girl. Entry #9

Designer suits and Primark shoes, they sit staring down at their one line life within their hands. I sit and wonder where those suits and heading with those people in them?

The endless Rattle of the underground cars echo in my ear, the hot dry air that fills the ground fills my lungs and every breath dose dry my mouth.

The once cold bottle with drops of cold water that sat upon the surface now have gone and the contents now warm leaving my hand now wet, a sip not quite ease the thrust that is with in my throat.

The rhythmic drown of steel on steel and the rush of air fills the air in this tin can  car that is racing miles beneath the grown of London town.

Hundreds of miles of tunnels disused. As we slow and the suddenly stop the current residence of this tin can tut and shuffle in their seats, Those who stand relax their arms form folding on tight and shuffle their feet, an impatient glance at time on smart phones and shiny watch faces.

Sitting still in the illuminated darkness, you have have to wonder which line the vibrating rattling is coming from above or below? in front or behind?

Looking beyond my own reflection in the window behind a girl in her Primark suit and designer shoes and designer bag, engrossed in an e-book on her electronic device.

Hidden in the darkness, lengths of  cable run. Held to the wall with mettle brackets covered in black dirt. A door locked and bolted with a tunnel number painted on it.

My imagination begins to run wild are far from these designer suits and Primark shoes. far gone are the days of top hats and cravats.

Be hind the door and down the tunnel lined with cables and pipes leading you further in, deeper in to the dark leading to a deserted and forgotten station, used last, last century.

Broad sheets on benches and old gas lamps  still hanging, shrouded in dust and silk spun cloths of spider webbing. discoloured posters from the second would war, hand drawn and painted by widows of the war.

A long disused track conjures a phantom wind,  whirling with in. Thought the ground a distant sound of racing trains coming from above or below? in front or behind? Dust the traces of the  present along the trains deserted river bed, plastic bags white and blue ripped and tattered discarded form the world above.

A trace of the urban explorers and homeless, sprayed on the half white and green tiled walls next to a waterfall that runs ceiling to floor moss and mould, the only  things that grow in the this damp endless night of this world below the city above.

foot prints in the dust along the platform around in circles and back again, from one end to the other. 

Paw prints lead to a bricked up door and away again, what sought of beast walks this Labyrinth beneath the streets above.

I don’t think that it is tame. With blood stained fur and a broken fang, claws long and white. sharpened on the tiled walls of a forgotten tunnel. Nesting in a carriage of a Victorian train with its shining deep blue eyes to see in this endless night of blackness. 

This island of light, illuminated by the flicking strip lights of the modern world, that has unknowing forgotten this would that lays beneath their feet.

A sudden sound and a sharp movement breaks me from my day dream, bring me back to the reality with in this tin can that I am  traveling within, beneath the ground with these designer suits and Primark shoes. Primark suits and design shoes. lukewarm water, and discarded papers. Lost in the depths beneath the city, in winding tunnels centres old, and an endless night. mythical beasts, in a unknown would.

A sudden bight light as we pull in to an island and passengers leave and new arrive Primark suits, and tourist bags, knock off hand bags. switched off form the world, in their on line world. as we retreat once more in to the dark and me in to my thoughts and over active imagination.

© sarah jane patel