The Film in the Window
Sitting inside the train, I lean against the cloudy window that reminds me of an old photograph with blurred edges. Through it I watch men and women bustle purposefully along the platform, looking as though each one of them has been treated abominably and are marching indignantly to the local police station to make a complaint. If the world were black-and-white, I might be able to imagine I were watching a comedy sketch at the cinema, in which everyone needs the policeman but no one knows where to find him. Somewhere deep inside my brain, I laugh. My inner child still invents stories to amuse my outer adult. But today, the adult cannot laugh. The world is colorful, and its color reflects its reality. I can’t fool myself that the solemn, troubled, nervous faces on the other side of the glass will be smiling by lunchtime. I wonder if anyone in the world will ever smile again.