Across from me on the red line, there was a man sitting there, facing to his left. He wore a green Boston Globe hat, and a blue North Face bookbag sat perched on the seat adjacent to him. He was mumbling to himself constantly, looking distant and crestfallen. He seemed fairly young, actually, but the look on his face was distinctly old and weary. I felt an impulse to give him a hug, but I didn’t.
We all have days when we suddenly start talking to ourselves. Those are the days when, overwhelmed, our minds fracture and we descend into a world where we can control all the voices, keep ourselves company. For people like him, that is a constant reality, and there are few things in this world sadder than a life where the illusion persists every day.
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