A stream of thought

by Josh

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I’m sitting on an early morning train to Frankfurt.
The hushed conversation of a couple is the only sound apart from the usual sounds that train-commuters make:They  rustle about, sniff and clear their throats.
There’s a guy on the train I used to go to school with. He sits just across from where I am and I’m sure we are both happy to ignore each other.
He stares out of the window just as intently as I am staring into my laptop.
I notice how regularly I scan the room, because there is a demarcation line in it now that I can’t cross, because our eyes might meet somewhere there.
It would be the perfect love movie, we are both looking to the floor and the tangents of our gazes cross, and we look up and into each others eyes. But instead of falling in love, we would have to;
a.) Engage in a horribly awkward conversation
or
b.) Look away and pretend not to have seen each other, discharging a burst of awkwardness that is almost painful

And so we rest in our silent agreement.
The contract is sealed and neither of us is going to break it.

The train has a delay of ten minutes, which could have me miss my connection train.
Not to worry though, I’ve got time on my hands.
What a luxury it is, to have time on my hands. To spend it at will, with minimum responsibility (mainly to feed the cat) and no pressure.
Well… little pressure.
I also feel uncomfortable, awkward and embarassed not to be a productive member of society. Like a hunter-gatherer who neither hunts nor gathers and will be an outcast soon.

I live very frugally most of the time and I saved some money during my studies, putting 10% of my monthly income to the side. Now I live off that stock until it runs out.
Nothing to be ashamed of, really.
Yet every time someone asks me, what I do, I feel childish, almost guilty.
And in a sense, it is a child-like state as I live with my dad and brother who are both working.
I’m happy to be able to spend my moments at will. To be able to hang out with people I care about and do things I love is the greatest luxury I can imagine.
I feel guilty about my freedom and my happiness cramped among the working class commuting to their daily dose of toil. Not all of them, surely, but most of them likely.
And me? I will go to have brekkie at Gran’s after which I meet my sister for bouldering.
Pure luxury.

Abundance rarely is a solitary thing.

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