The El

The man on the train cried out in lonely agony being trapped at home forever. His bent and crooked glasses and disheveled clothes were a cry for help on their own. In fact, I saw him twice in my journey to the ethnic neighborhood of Argyle. He apparently was just riding the trains all night, maybe looking for someone to talk to. He was silent around 5pm on my first trip on the red line, and by 8pm he had lost his marbles. He hit himself over the head numerous times. His hand made a fist but the contact with his forehead was made with the softest part of his fist, where his pinky closed around the outermost edge of his hand. This angle made repeated rapping somewhat awkward but his forehead still bore the red mark of self-hate.
His tears stained the back of the seat in front of him and everyone around him was staring with pity. The man next to him got off the train immediately after he began hitting himself, only to get on the next car, clearly very disturbed by the man's actions. He got off the train abruptly and I wondered where he had to go. I hoped it was some place sheltered and safe. An environment to comfort his troubled mind and people to make him feel wanted. While the city can foster communal living, it will never incorporate all the people in its midst.