A train of horrific consciousness

I’m not sure what happens when I get of public transport, it’s some kind of portal to a hellish dimension where all of my deepest fears come to haunt me, taunt me, mock me make getting from a to b some epic ordeal involving the hypothetical hopebole of unquestionable and unfathomable terror. So this is what’s going though my head as the world whizzes by and that uncomfortable gurgling in my stomach makes itself more known, ever-growing in its attempt to push me to that unthinkable orifice that is the train toilet. It’s not like the splatters of mud on the windows remind me of the blood or anything, that was so long ago you’d think I’d be over it by now and why the fuck have I run off the margin? Well that’s just bumble bimble, elegantly unruly. I was wondering how long it would take to degenerate into random words and there we have it; a fine example of explosive vocabular diarrhea. The fields of rape are so bright I think my retinas are being burned out. Some billions of tiny trumpet-headed blossoms tossing their pungent pollen into the world and waiting for it to sneeze. Anything to take away the focus on the suspect stains in the carpet that could as easily be coffee and lemonade as shit and piss and the dust of some thousands of commuters’ skin and lice explode with every movement. Gusts of undiscovered bacteria, jumping into my personal space where they have no right to be. Keep breathing! It doesn’t matter how many flakes of the dead you inhale, how many spores or motes. They will get you in the end whether your breaths are deep or shallow. The ticket inspector provides a moment’s respite, but his charming youthful demeanour serves only to remind me that I’m not so young any more and that one day someone else will be breathing in my dead skin from this seat. What a comforting thought, don’t you think? He stammered when he caught my eye. I’m going to guess that he got a glimpse of the madness and a momentary fear about what I could be so feverishly writing. Indeed. If only you knew young man. If only you knew how torturous and deadly this ungodly giant metal horse without legs really was. I won’t break his spell, maybe he doesn’t need to know. Maybe no-one does. I wished I didn’t and could just blissfully breathe and lean against the window in reckless abandon, feeling the cool glass against my cheek instead of feeling my damned hand cramp up like a motherfucker because I haven’t written so much so fast since my exams some 11 years ago.
I transcribed these words into WordPress to stop the electric currents of my paranoia from stepping up, and then it happened.
The four most dreaded words in public transport even for a normal person: rail replacement bus service.
I’m sat at the back even though I know I’ll probably feel more sick but at least I can see all the other lizard passengers from here, I know they can’t read what I’m typing. I know they can’t see me. Those fears I had about the train toilet now pale in significance as I start to fear that my bladder might be getting full but there is no lav on this noisy ramshackle wheeled behemoth, and the only place for wee to exist is inside one’s bladder or on the seats that have been peed on so many times before. Did you know that as a child I refused to take long journeys because I was afraid I would need a wee? A tragic consequence of recurrent cystitis that resembles quite well the nervous wringing that comes with such journeys as this.

If you’ve read this far then I’m impressed. Now maybe learn the lesson that no, it doesn’t always get better and no, there isn’t always a point. Sorry folks,  sometimes it’s just melted words.

It’s getting very hot in here. A little too hot. I mean, I seriously wonder if the bus is on fire by why hasn’t the driver noticed? I swapped seats but the heat seems to be following me. I can’t remove my jumper else my skin will be in contact with the seat! Finally I find a cooler seat buy it comes with bonus ingrained gum, smeared in-between the pair. I want us to travel both slower and faster.

Uh-oh maybe that was a bad move. I opened a window, not only touching the sullied surface but also letting in the local farming smell. How are people sat there in there coats? So glad I’ve got the whole back of the bus to play musical chairs with so I can pretend I’m not totally trapped on here until Norwich. Noone has turned around to glare about the window so maybe they were secretly overheated too but they knew that there was ebola on the damned window pull. Better get my antibacterial antiviral handfoam out…I promised my therapist I’d hold off on doing that but it’s been minutes and it might be too late to save myself now!

How much longer can I keep this monologue up? Much longer that you can read so I’ll listen to some Tool instead.

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