Working Man


The alarm screams its rude awakening call.

He turns on the bedside light, which, from outside, makes his window look like a gold speck of dust, floating in darkness.

And so the routine begins.

He showers. Dresses. Has Breakfast. Says silent goodbyes to the wife and kids.


Standing on the platform, waiting for the 6 o’clock train.

Briefcase in hand, and a neatly straightened tie.

It seems so futile right now to be looking so smart, when there is no one on the platform to look smart for.

He is entirely alone.


The train leaves its post, as the sun starts to make its appearance.

Mist slowly rolls down the hills, creating a grey sea in the valley of ghosts.

The train rhythmically bumps left. Right. Left.

And so the routine continues.


One by one, street lights indicate the existence of civilization.



Office Blocks.

Early morning buses.

The countryside is merely a distant memory.


The train slows down, coming to its penultimate destination.

Passengers have come and gone, and yet again, he is alone.

The sun has reached its place in the sky, at last, but it is still fighting against the heavy cloud.

The train creaks to a halt, and the voice-over thanks him for choosing to travel with them.


Standing on the platform, the wind from the train rustling his hair,

and wrestling with his neatly straightened tie.

He looks left,
Takes a breath

And so the routine continues.


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