I wake up in the morning a couple of hours before I really need to get up for work. Thinking about it, it makes me feel like I'm not just waking up because I have work. Some days are easier than others, but more often than not I'll spend some time hitting the snooze button until the clock reaches around 6am. I then emerge from the comfort of my bed - I do it fast, as one would rip out a band aid so as to only feel a brief moment of pain - and stumble my way to the kitchen to switch the kettle on for some coffee. I grab the steaming mug and sit at my desk, listening to the wheezing sound of the computer switching back on to life. Outside, the darkness is fading swiftly with each minute ticking by and I look up often to watch from the window in front of me the skies awaken to a new day I already know will unfold almost just the same as the previous one.
Before I know it, it's time to get dressed - in a hurry, as always, because I never think to plan my outfit beforehand (or rather I just don't care enough to ever allocate that process the extra time I don't feel it deserves... which is what I seem to do with most 'concrete' matters, as I call them). One quick cursory glance lets me know what doesn't look too creased and I select what I'll be wearing based mostly on the clean pile of clothes not requiring any last minute ironing.
And then I'm out the door, on my way to the tube station, high heels stumping the ground in hollow thumps, hair floating free in the wind. The pavement beneath my feet is uneven and littered with tiny potholes, so there I am stumbling forward often, the expression on my face made of stone as my footsteps lose none of their assertive vigour and sense of direction for my footsteps know well where they're heading regardless of my my own mind's sighing.
At that precise moment, I look like any other 20-something 'working' woman heading to work, her handbag firmly stuck on her shoulder over a black coat tightly tied at the waist as her heels thump the ground almost in rhythm with her own heartbeat.
Then I reach the tube station, and often find myself fighting my way inside the carriage of a train. The 'learned' ones and those pressed by time know well where the doors will open exactly so that they can come stand and wait for the train exactly at that precise spot and be the first ones in - an almost sure way to get into the first incoming train. Conversely, the less busy, the less pressed by time and the clueless wait randomly across the platform and rarely get into the first incoming train. I often watch them watch us as our train leaves the platform, all of our faces made of stone.
And then, whether I find a seat or have to stand crushed by other passengers, my eyes invariably wander up towards the adverts placarded on the sides of the compartment in which I find myself.
It's always the same adverts. My God those advertising people are good. If it's not an advert asking you to ask yourself whether you have some kind of incontinence problem, it's all about far-away 'adventurous' travels to Kenya, or Egypt (but who wants to go there right now anyway), or some more exotic destination promising you the time of your life as you stand stuck between a fat, sweaty man and a coughing student. If you tell them you saw the advert on the tube, they apparently even give you a £50 discount on a travelling price-tag likely to set you back £1,000. Wow, amazing discount.
If it's not about travelling to far-away, exotic destinations, it's about... dating websites. One of those always has me in giggles because the advert is invariably located right above seats and it reads: "Mr Right could be sitting right under this advert", and then I look down and I see some 80 year-old with his trolley stuck between his legs, or a row of women sitting there. So I look up again to read the rest of the advert, and it tells me how it knows I'm a busy, trendy man or woman who's doing so well at work that I haven't got the time to find 'love' so that website is there to help me out. It promises to match me to another Londoner whose lifestyle is just as 'successful' as mine, and that I, too, can fit in 'love' in my busy schedule. My GOD. If I wanted someone who's just as stuck and sucked into that daily busyness I'd just buy myself a dildo and be done with it. As for my male equivalent, they might as well invest in some inflatable doll. In all seriousness.
Remember how back in the days parents and family used to choose who we'd get married to, etc? Well... I have to say I fail to see the difference when it comes to these dating websites. Except that people today believe they are 'freer' in their so-called choice of a mate or partner when really, nothing has changed. At least when family is choosing, they might know you a little bit better than a website automatically matching you to others based on some dubious psychometric test. When these people using websites to find dates or 'THE' one hear of arranged marriage, for example, their eyes will almost come out of their head in horror, and yet they cannot see that they are no better - because getting together in this life is rarely about this 'love' affair (not on a long-term basis anyway), it's about practicalities, hence why both arranged marriages AS WELL AS dating sites manage to pair people off so well. It's not about 'love'. It's about finding the first match that comes along that happens to have the right combination of likes, dislikes and interests, the differences that we can put up with, a hint of physical attraction and the rest is down to... HABIT. Stick around long enough and you'll find yourself in a long-term relationship before you know it, finding it hard to break away because of the habit that builds up. I'm not saying it's bad at all, it may well be the most realistic version of 'love' that actually exists, and I just wish society would stop confusing people with fantasies.
You may look at an old couple and think:"Wow, these two must have really loved each other, they look so in love after all the years together," and yet that's mostly habit's doing, here. You weren't there at the beginning when they simply paired up at random and then got used to each other so much that in the end yes, it looks a lot like this fantasy we call 'love'. The fact remains that what we fantasise about, this 'love' delusion as is portrayed in society through movies and books, for instance, is nothing but the works of someone sticking around long enough - and sharing the same interests and goals in life, plus a hint of initial attraction, is ALL it took.
Beside the dating adverts, one can also find adverts on fertility treatments. It makes sense since most of the women I see with infants on the tube are often well over 30. The fertility treatment adverts picture a beautiful toddler smiling at you, and then in the small prints it even promises you 'free' treatment if you agree to donate your eggs so you can end up with 10 other unknown kids somewhere in England. It doesn't matter though, because you're unlikely to ever know about those kids that are yours biologically - yet you should keep in mind that a kid always feels the basic need to know where they come from. I know this from personal experience.
How crafty those adverts are. They really seem to target the 'right' crowds, don't they?
My over-zealous analytical mind will be my downfall, it seems. It renders me unable to just gobble up whatever nonsense is spurted out at me. I have to analyse it all inside my head. And then I see it for what it is, I make the connections, and though I may laugh out loud at the utter nonsense at first, it never fails to remind me that I could never fit in.
Maybe people like me exist randomly across the world for a purpose. We may look like freaks or behave like weirdos because we never blend in, but we're only here to force a kick back in the right direction... or just express some truth over the vomit of lies. Either way, I don't really care so long as I'm not part of or immersed in that vomit.
The choice is really yours.
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