The notes begin and I climb the steps as they begin to be convinced and sharp. I no longer hear the metallic scratches of the train, the day begins with that piece and they and I, the people, huddle in the wagon and against the windows.

They look at my hair (I want it long then I change color something of my style. Oh my God…, I hate feeling tired as soon as I wake up).

They hear my music (he could understand what I listen to, I have the volume loud. Maybe he tells me something, I take off the headphone and we start talking about me about him on the music train and then … who knows where it goes down).

They look at my fingers (gnawing nails, damn exams damn stress him).

It is not unpleasant for me this daily journey that is an alternation of sky and dark galleries, a confusion of bodies and faces of all kinds.

When the day begins to wake up, and so do I, the train is a confusion to be discovered and defined and looked at, a composition of disobedient and elusive elements in the chaos of the stops and seats, a mix of glances between strangers and book covers and polyphonic rings of mobile phones.

The day wakes up and the train accompanies the multitude, each towards his life, all on the same train, each with a different life. All this and then me, the gaze lost among the people, to the rhythm of the tracks, swaying and following the graffiti on the walls of the galleries.

Me, sitting in the train on the day that wakes up, immersed among the people breathing air breathed by the people of the train, I try to discover, define, look at and investigate people so I know people. Investigate define and discover the train, huge metal stomach that contains the germ of our lives trapped in the flow of tracks already traced, waiting for destination. And then… terminus.

Ilaria Iodice, 2014