There is a certain bliss associated with living in residence. With all of its freedoms, hectic schedules and copious consumption of alcohol, my fellow first-years in the dorms are spared subway commutes.

People on the subway aren’t really human beings at all. We are all very small pieces in a very large machine. Trying to get the portion that use public transit to work and to school every day is a task that all of our social conditioning has not sufficiently prepared us for.

On an individual basis, I’m sure the vast majority are decent, amicable people. Once we congregate in groups we behave in a pathetic fashion. To call it rude would be like saying the seats in Convocation Hall are uncomfortable. I’m inclined to believe that functional civilization vanishes at this point. Down in those tunnels, anything goes. Those who descend into this chaotic underground inferno, hot as hell and just as nasty, might find it remarkable when they arrive at their destination alive and relatively unscathed.

I have been through a world where watching a middle-aged woman getting squished by the doors was my chief reward and where the train can hardly apply the brakes without my salivating over the thought of someone losing their balance and falling flat on their ass. The subway taught me hate.

Human beings act as individuals. We display unique characteristics and show independent thought. When crammed in like cattle, we behave much more like blood cells, desperately trying to reach our terminus at the other end of the circulatory system. Massive networks of cells bumping into each other, going up and down escalators and in and out of doors. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t enjoy touching these people.

I have a sneaking suspicion that none of them like it too much, either. Perhaps that could explain the need to powerwalk the whole time while in motion. Hopefully, when the hours of the work week get so long that no one has time to exercise, we could all just sprint our commute when not in motionless limbo inside a bus or subway car. Regardless, it’s never fast enough for some people and heaven forbid you might stop or slow down by an entrance or stairwell, you’re liable to get bowled over. Be warned!

Unified in purpose with my fellow subway commuters, I am graced with this one reward: at least I can sleep in my own bed at night. Sorry, rez.

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