Back to the grind

As I walk into the train station, I automatically think to myself "back to the grind". It feels as if someone has put my chores, my efforts, my wallet, and my energy into a blender and hit puree and it's only Monday.

The train station is packed. That's my CityRail! Always doing their job of running on or somewhere near the brink of nowhere near on time! The services look to be running somewhere between 4 and 10 minutes late. The trains normally leave from both platforms but the second platform is only being used for terminating inbound trains so those of us waiting are out of luck.

I walk past the people on the platform as the train slowly makes its way in. A girl with too much lip gloss on has the appearance of a woman lost to hard drugs, her lower lip jutted out while tired eyes beckon the attention of someone wanted, none undesired. Business-man, business-woman.

You don't seek the individuals; they seek you.

As I leave the train at Town Hall to jump to the next – another part of my daily grind – I realise that I'm passing more individuals. The single mother who still holds onto her wedding band because she can't move on. The rushed lawyer who slept with the new girl last night.

Tired faces don't start anew; they merely get older and more tired.

The trains are late on the North Sydney line too. It's not just the Eastern Suburbs line. That's usually significant of some greater issue at fault like a broken down train at Parramatta or in another place affecting delays. That's what the signs tell us anyway. "Did you know…" they begin appealing to our more inquisitive nature than anything else. Oh look! It's CityRail trivia!

Another excuse, another exercise in spin.

The lady next to me in this late packed sardine can of commute looks at my fingernails as they grip the pole in the middle of the carriage. She can see the flecks of dry skin tired of all my selfish nail picking. I curl my toes, the same sort of damage done to them by way of my aggressive nail habit. It hurts a little. I really should stop picking at them. She looks beyond the fingers now, the cheap red frames of her glasses catching the one ray of light present in this cabin and running with it. As the train arrives, she composes herself making sure she's calm, controlled, and confident. The doors close behind her.

It's all the same.

The same tired faces that know a weekend isn't long enough and yearn for more.

And as my train approaches the desolate concrete paradise that is St. Leonards, I just think it's back to the grind…

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