Paarth Madan

A medium to iterate on my own thoughts.

Morning Rush

Posted at — May 21, 2021

This is part of the grateful series.

Story 1: Doors Galore

The morning rush used to be a story of doors.

The story started when I’d jump out of bed and swing open the bathroom door. It wouldn’t be long before the garage door opened, followed by the slam of my car door and the sound of tires hurrying off the driveway.

The story continued—driving in traffic alongside many other doors—neighbouring cars all making slow progress in their commute. Starting and stopping as everyone makes their way to work. Sometimes you’d see tow truck doors; usually, someone pulling into an intersection a tad bit late—can you blame them though, maybe they were running late!

After an eventful morning drive, I’d park, open my car door, and run across the lot to the parking garage door. I’d scurry down the stairs, and prop open the door to the train platform.

I’d wait, sometimes. Usually, though, I’d be running, hoping the train was waiting for me. It was a great day when I’d squeeze through the train’s doors.

Seeing the station exit my line of sight through the train doors is much more exciting than seeing the train exiting my line of sight from the platform; It’s always a relief being on the right side of the doors.

Once on the train, I’d move between train cars, sliding open the doorway between consecutive carts. I’d make my way to the front of the train, in anticipation of arriving at the station.

Once at the station, I scurried through the crowd and found my way waiting—this time for the doors to the subway. I’d exit the subway, climb up to street level, and wait again—this time, for the door to the streetcar.

The streetcars would traverse along their path in the limited freedom they had; after all, they had to stay in their tracks. The periodic speed of the automated announcements would remind me that I was one door closer to the end of my commute.

The monotonic voice, often butchering local pronunciations of streets sits as a familiar noise in my head—I still remember the way it’d echo, “Spadina”.

I exited the streetcar and walked with conviction towards the office door. Badge in hand, I’d scan my HID® door fob card against the reader. I’d swing open the door to the office, assuming the green light from the reader had flashed.

The next door was special. It was the last door—the door to the elevators. I’d select my floor—I was on the 11th. Most people on the elevator would exit before the 11th, so I usually found a spot at the back of the elevator.

The opening of the elevator door aligned with a gained sense of relief. The commute was over and the workday could begin.

Story 2: A door that I adore

The morning rush of today is a story of a door.

The story starts when I jump out of bed and swing open the bathroom door.

The commute is over and the workday can begin.

Before the story was doors galore. Now, it’s singular. The story of a door that I adore.

Always good to find silver linings.

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