Breathing
Lots of things travel through my head, especially as I make my way through the seas of other travelers all going in different directions. I wonder, “who stopped walking on the left side of the escalator, and why?â€
“Why do these people insist on polluting my air?â€
“Why doesn’t anyone smile?â€
“Why do the Metros just stop in the tunnels now and then, and why do they sometimes sit at the station for several minutes when usually the processes takes just 30 seconds. Why don’t they just GO!?â€
I think about the fact that there is no fresh air circulation down in the depths of the subway – and I think about just how deep under ground some of the lines are.
I long for fresh air. Especially as I emerge from the depths of the hot underground world full of a stale, smoke-filled haze. Sometimes, the best feeling in the world is to reach the stairs that lead upward – outside – and to feel the rush of cool air on my face. Other times the cool rush comes, but it is just as saturated with chemicals as the air below. I try to breathe deeply but instead choke on the foreign air that I had expected to be clean.
I love getting out of the city. When we go to our friends’ houses outside the city, I always breathe deeply. I imagine the air of the foothills hitting my lungs and attacking all the grossness that has accumulated inside. I try to take as much of it in as I possibly can. I wish I could bottle it and bring it home with me. I’d love to have a day when the snot inside my nose does not come out black. I wonder if breathing the Madrid air increases my chances for developing lung cancer?
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