Some place else, anywhere else.

He's on the tube now.
He sits there, everyday in the third carriage, sweater on, thermos of vegetable soup tucked between his legs.
The journey is relatively quick if not a little inane, repetitive, arduous and hot.
Today he took a book, thought it would break up the mundane, the normal.
He's on the tube now.
The pages are open, the words have rendered him paralysed, the tips of his fingers completely numb, he feels his face flush. The carriage is smaller somehow.
He's on the tube now.
Yes, he's on the tube now but the words have taken him some place else, some place sad or nostalgic or dangerous or ridiculously happy. He doesn't know anymore, the feelings are confused or forgotten. It's not how he got here that's important. It's how not to cry in front of these strangers in their suits and their shoes, holding double shot espressos and iPhones, judgements on the tips of their eyes.
His eyes have blurred, the words shift on the page, impossible now to make sense of the sentences.
He's on the tube now.
But he knows that once he gets off a tiny part of him will be left here in this moment, doomed to repeat it all, because the words.
The words.
The words.
They own him now and its all he can do not to turn into liquid and evaporate into the pages.

This book will forever be a part of him.

He's on the tube now.
But all he wants is to survive it.