on the london overground

august rain and the art of noticing

the internet loves using the phrase “go touch grass,” as a way to humble somebody or belittle them. sure, it’s both funny and condescending, but i think that sometimes we forget the validity behind it. now, obviously, stepping outside and feeling the earth is not going to cure your depression, solve your problems and heal your wounds. but you can’t quite convince me that it wont bring you the tiniest bit closer. no amount of psychoanalysis and self care is comparable to reconnecting with the world around you after a period of isolation and withdrawal. looking at the city with fresh eyes, finding inspiration and charm in places where they never were before. noticing the insignificant things.

when people talk about seeing the beauty in small things, it’s usually in relation to undeniably pleasing concepts. see the beauty in the small things, but it’s the breathtaking view of golden sunlight melting through the pristine leaves of a sycamore tree. see the beauty in the small things, but it’s the wayward spray of water droplets from a crystal stream splashing onto the painted petals of a nearby rosebud. there’s no question of these images holding immense beauty, but i feel as though we could be digging deeper. even with mindfulness we’ve gotten lazier over time. there’s a huge difference between recognising the beautiful and divine where it plainly exists, and actively searching for it in the unremarkable places where just as easily it may not. the latter is something that i implore you to practice.

look around your room right now and find something ordinary. your laptop, perhaps. how many stories been created from that very keyboard? how many assignments has it helped you to complete, allowing you to relish in the relief of submitting them? your carpet, how many people have traced their footsteps over it? how many times have you walked across it before going on to make some of your most cherished memories? even the walls of your room hold the most vulnerable parts of yourself. the tears that nobody sees, the smiles you sneak to yourself at night when you’re messaging that person under the covers, even the songs you sing when you think nobody is listening. these are just a couple of generalised examples, but the more you really pull apart the concept and delve into it, the more you will find diamonds where others find dust.

at some point in the last five years, i ended up developing a penchant for this type of thinking. now i find it to be an active habit, one which i practice without even realising. our reality reflects our thoughts a lot more than most of us realise, and my thoughts have grown to become particularly romantic. there is a romance in every frame of vision if you learn how to look for it. we don’t create it or erase it; we either recognise it or we don’t.

i took a train through london yesterday to visit my parents on the other side of the city. i found myself to be in a particularly terrible mood that day, partially due to my lack of sleep and partially due to the hair pulling agony of nicotine withdrawal. i’m not normally somebody who cries easily, but i collapsed into tears at least four times from my bed to the train station. exhaustingly burnt out, there had been an air of depression hanging over me that loomed larger than what i was used to coping with. i hadn’t been outside that much recently due to an extreme workload and the mental urge to hibernate safely in the confines of my home, so i begrudged the three hour train journey ahead of me. i put my headphones in and gazed out the window for the first hour, drifting in and out of sleep. it was one of those days where the sky is thick with heavy grey clouds, the lingering rain threatening to fall but never quite receiving its chance. overcast, yet a white, blinding sort of sunlight still seems to drown out anything and everything with no visible source.

i was jolted awake when the train stopped at a particularly busy station just outside of central. the station was home to one of london’s airports and was always the most crowded part of the journey, never failing to welcome countless excited tourists hustling onto the train with their oversized suitcases and thick american accents. it always sparked a faint happiness within me, seeing their face light up at the sight of the shard pulling into view out of the right-hand window. hearing them chatter at an elevated level about the red double decker buses, how they can’t wait to see big ben and my personal favourite; “oh look, it’s the bridge from harry potter!”

there was a couple sitting in front of me this time, who, upon listening to them speak, i learned were from the states. they were around fifty or sixty maybe, the kind lines of age having long begun settling themselves on their bright, rosy faces. the train moved and soon enough they were clambering over each other with their phones out, desperately trying to take a photo of the skyscrapers as they rose into view. it always makes me smile to myself when something mundane in my life, something that i’ve grown comfortable with taking for granted, becomes the highlight of somebody else’s day. perspective can be our biggest gift. i watch the woman as she tries to capture the perfect photo, frustration lacing through her brow as the picturesque concept of london becomes obstructed by scaffolding and cranes that rise taller than the skyline itself. her excitement refuses to falter. a moment later, another woman approaches the couple, frantically hauling her suitcase behind her as she asks for directions. they laugh in that awkward way that strangers do, not quite sure what they’re laughing about but afraid of the silence that follows when they stop, and reply that they’re not from england either and have no idea.

there’s another couple sitting parallel to me, they got on a few stops before the airport and caught my eye if only for their truly content appearances. i can’t recall what they were dressed in or how they looked, all that stands out in my memory is that they exuded a level of relaxation and tranquillity that starkly contrasted the animated train carriage. they had shared a sandwich amidst the chaos and laughed with each other so easily, evoking an aura of carefree joy that i had not seen in some time. i thought of my lover and hoped that we would be just like them in twenty years. that time’s grappling hand did not steal our whimsy from us as it does to many people, with the exception of this duo. they overheard the woman asking for directions and spoke up, offering to help guide her and her partner. the conversation picked up quickly, and i learned that the first pair were local from london, while the other two were from cancun.

the woman from the latter couple told the tale of their prior travels, and i noticed that her boyfriend had a habit of gazing at her with a besotted enchantment as she talked, hearing each word she said as if it was the first time it had ever been spoken. they laughed when they learned that all of them were heading to brussels, belgium, that night, and exchanged details with the promise of meeting up once they landed. there were murmurings of what a small world it was until they departed the train and went their separate ways. it’s been around hours since, and i wonder where they are now. maybe they did meet up in the end. i don’t quite know what it was about witnessing this series of events that rejuvenated my composition, but i exhaled and the world felt lighter.

i returned my gaze to the window. every building, every car, every tree seemed to hold more beauty than each of them once did. i have no doubt that i have seen those figures before, on the same exact journey, looking out the same exact window. but there is something special about practicing the act of noticing, as opposed to just simply seeing. we pass a supermarket and my mind instantly wanders through all of the people who could have stopped there with their families to grab some food for a day trip that would one day be a core memory. all of the lovers who have roamed the aisles searching for the perfect ingredients for a home cooked valentines day dinner. maybe somebody doing their weekly shop with an extra skip in their step having just received the call that they got their dream job. and it truly makes me cry. only this time, they are tears of gratitude that i am able to be a part of something so much bigger than myself, and so much more beautiful than most people realise. gratitude that i am someone who is able to recognise that beauty.

image source: pinterest