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I am always left in awe by the most brutally real mystery of my world: the Tube.

I remember the first time I stepped onto the escalator as a child and felt myself carried into the depths of the earth. Even now, the same shiver runs through me as it did then. I feel the rush of the crowd around me – their urgency, their momentum – but I am not part of them. I only see them, feel them.

At the top of the stairs, the wind from below slaps my face. It whirls around me, lifts my hair, and I dissolve into it. I step out of the faceless crowd.

The gentle vibrations of the escalator, the soft pull of the rubber handrail beneath my palm – it feels like the heartbeat of a living thing. I know it feels me too. It speaks to me. I see the expressionless faces rising toward me, tilted forward, hollow-eyed. They appear to be hurrying uphill, tilted forward like dancers caught mid-step – but they don’t seem to move at all. It’s just my eyes playing tricks on me.

Sometimes I want to cry out:
“Don’t you see it? Don’t you feel this wonder?”
But I only smile.
No – they don’t feel it. I can see it in their eyes.

As I step off, eddies of air swirl around me. I hear them call me to play. My fingers flutter in the breeze, brushing my hair back. I laugh. All around me, people perform entropy with icy professionalism – fluid creatures taking the shape of their container, clinging to the invisible walls drawn along the safety line at the platform’s edge.

They do not see the miracle: a wall that halts them, without form, without warning.

Only the wind and I may pass.

“Please stand behind the yellow line.”
The voice crackles from above. I laugh again, nod in reply, and step back. The Tube watches over me. It sees me, hears me. I am known. I am safe.

The wind rises sharply against my skin. I hear the low roar in the dark. I turn toward it, waiting for the narrow beam of light that always comes first, then the great headlights that tear the darkness open.

Around me, the people stare ahead, motionless, as if the meaning of life were etched on the tiles opposite. I don’t hear the rumble – I feel it, my whole body trembling. The wind grips my hair as the great red-white beast thunders past.

The ground shakes beneath my feet, as if the earth itself were trying to shrug off the long steel serpent. But the beast is tame now. It halts before me.

“Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.” Of course, I do.

 

It opens its flanks and beckons me in – for a journey beneath the world.

I slip through the shuffling zombies. They don’t see the way my hand caresses the cold metal pole, or how I spin and land on the long seat. The carriage isn’t full. I can still see out.

“Mind the closing doors.”

Of course. I chuckle, leaning back as the carriage begins to move. Others just clutch the poles.

Darkness. Harsh light. Darkness. Faces. Harsh light, eyes caught in smudged glass. A deep thrum in my chest. Colours, greyness – it’s like watching the most beautiful painting while reading the finest poem, all to the wildest music.

We race through the earth’s darkness. Hundreds of tons of soil above us. People, traffic, cities. Yet here, inside the belly of the long monster, all is peaceful. Hauntingly so.

“The next station is Holborn. Please have your tickets ready for inspection.”

Certainly. My body tightens slightly. I can feel the brakes bite down, taming the creature sliding along its polished rails.

I rise as the doors open, run my fingers along the pole once more, then let the current of fleeing bodies carry me along.

Like sheep to shearing, I think, as the queue narrows near the escalators. The wind follows me. I feel it. It tells me it’s waiting. It will always wait.

I glance back at the newcomers—how they lean away in hesitation, uncertain whether to descend. Three figures at the gates try to look stern, but they only look bored.

The magic fades. Along with the others, I reach for my pocket out of habit. I flash my travelcard at the terminal. The gate opens. The woman on the right looks at me for a moment but she turns away without expression.
I am invisible.

The wind gives me one final nudge, gentle but firm. Yes. It sees me. Feels me, as I feel it.
I stretch out my hand behind me and stroke the air.

I will return.