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The Process of Disbelief

If you can't take the heat, get out of the  way.

It was one of those days.  I overslept.  I missed my train.  I stood on the platform and hoped for summer while the leaves forgot green.  I forgot my breakfast bar.  I travelled to Euston to catch a different train and was scolded for having the wrong ticket.  I paid the difference (same destination, no?) and rushed upstream, past the elbows and man-bags, to make my new train. 

People were everywhere and, on one of those days, they all seemed to point their annoying DNA right at me.  I felt bad.  It wasn’t their fault they were so annoying.  I was annoyed by everyone.  I probably annoyed a few, too, though and that eased my conscious just a bit.  I climbed down the stairs towards the crowded tunnel that would lead me to my platform.  The stairs came alive as I walked against the grain.  I am no modern man, I thought.  Souls tapped alternate steps like a tramped collection of muted claps.  Gloves and scarves were out, or in, and I was happy I forgot mine.  It was hot down there, probably 80-85.  How is it possible to walk uphill down stairs?