a mind that wanders (i have)

I'm writing this whilst sitting on the train, passing through small towns in which I could never see my future self reside...

Having picked up my crappy latte at the 7eleven closest to the station from which today's journey started, I decided that today I would use the time of my upcoming one-hour train ride wisely. And by wisely I mean writing a, by my standards, quite long blog post on people and public transportation.

I will not be writing about the old lady who entered the bus shortly after me and for whom nobody bothered to give up their seat, the three 15-year-olds sitting in the very back of the same bus listening to some r'n'b tune out loud on one of their mobiles nor will I write about the old man who desperately tried to hide his 11am drunkenness in ways that were only too obvious. No, I will not be writing about these typical moments that one always seem to encounter when venturing out into the jungle that is public transportation.

Instead, I will try to capture this one short moment that I experienced, which somehow triggered a small train of thoughts. It did not last for long, but somehow it left me with this feeling of... hope, perhaps?

On the previously mentioned bus I just happened to end up sitting next to 'the scribbling boy'. Actually, I doubt that he should even be referred to as a 'boy' since he was about my own age, that was just the name that instantly popped in to my mind when I saw him. Because that was exactly what he did, scribble. And he wasn't just scribbling on a random piece of paper or some cheap calender or notebook. No, he was doing his scribbling in a black Moleskine notebook. Yes, my dear reader, people like that do actually still exist.

See, we are actually talking about a medium sized notebook here, and I think that he managed to write two full pages or so while I sat next to him, which couldn't have been more than about ten minutes. Oh, I would have given anything to get to read those pages. I tried to sneak a peek but it was just impossible to do so without seeming overly creepy.

I can't seem to stop thinking about people like that. I wonder if this guy had an entire collection of black Moleskines at home with every single page filled from top to bottom with thoughts, memories, stories, poetry... words. The art of scribblery in all its wondrous forms and shapes.

People don't scribble any more, at least not the people I know. I do scribble sometimes, but not in the intense way that this guy did, 'the scribbling boy'.

I blame technology.


No. Blogging does not count as proper scribblery in case you were wondering.