I was an adult the first time I can remember taking public transportation. Too old to appreciate it and too impatient to wait.

A public portal of germs and private thoughts.

Everything cold. Grays, blacks and greens. The sound of nature never enters public places. No birds chirping or pastel colors. You arrive, sometimes late with an occasional scent of dried dust and molded leather. A place where a man with a grammar school education and a man with a PhD will scramble for the same amount of change or transit card before admitted and sit across from one another with equal impatience. The only place that harbors the moment of the collective now, with an individual plea for the next moments. Where historical boycott unfold and racism is slightly diminish. Where elders are given a last glimpse of respect, assigned seating and reduced fares.

Blank stars headed somewhere I’ll never know. The everyday man’s sanctuary.

Written by Nicole Murray

Photography by OzImages