packed like sardines

I exit the train and am one cell in the current that passes down the platform from the train doors to the stairs. the procession descends, packed like sardines in a crushed tin box; solemn and mechanical as we move to the gates at which we pay for passing through liminal vessels and spaces to our temples. today we broke bread at the benches on the lawn we can see from the window: an assortment of biscuits and cupcakes wrapped in plastic, products of the devotion of other believers from other churches. nobody had time to bake.

on the bus home last night I told my parents about my new religion. dad said work shouldn’t feel that way if you enjoy it. I thought people were meant to enjoy their religions. on the bus tonight I open my phone to a photo of a monkey dressed like a professor. there’s a chat on my phone that details the 326th day of the genocide: 41 Palestinians killed and 114 injured in the past 24 hours. I tell myself I’ll eat less chocolate tonight.