Train of thought: The persona addict. By @ethanbennett94

Ethan Bennett

By Ethan Bennett


Train of thought: The persona addict.




Exhausted, eyes peel open.

Blurry. Reach for phone.

Ringtone: Slow Rise. Five more minutes?


Late x Marc = life ruined.

Rise. Piss. Shower. Dress. Hair.


Say good morning to Mum, make two cups of tea.

Bagel? Or cereal? …bagel. Peanut butter.

Sky News, no self promotional crap like the BBC.



The air is crisp and cool with a light fog. Walk to car.

5 minutes pass. Stereo failing to connect to Apple bloody Music

…still irritatingly buggy.

‘Chill’ playlist.



Park. Walk. 10 minutes.

Arrive at the station. Rat race.


Platform. Suits. Suits everywhere. Uniformity.


You. John. 43.

Slight depression.

Struggling to pay off the mortgage.

Wife. Boring. Unsatisfying. Your assistant is young and flirtatious.

Don’t do it John. Stay loyal.

In fact, fuck it John.

Your wife has been suspiciously close with the gardener recently.

He’s probably massive too.


Ooo, Girl. Fit.

Do I know you already?



Train. She’s stood meters away.

Awkward eye contact. Look away, be cool.

Pull out a book, she’d probably like that.




Pencil skirt. Blonde.

City worker?

A PA? Secretary?

Sick to death of dry old men perving.

Starbucks lover.

We should grab a coffee.

Maybe a frapaccino. Caramel?

Or cocktails. Probably an over priced inner city bar with a view.

Eats salads at lunch but never says no to McDonalds on a night out.

7 guys on the go. Probably.

Look up.

Caught me looking again.


*Train grinds to a halt – St Pancras. Doors open*

Should I? Should I say hi?


Get off train. Walk.


She’s still there. She’s next to you man!

Say something. Anything.

*smiles* She smiles back.

Lost in a sea of suits. Part ways.


What could have been. Move on.



Tube. Standing, of course. Suffocating.

Heat. Sweat. The battle for space.

Surrounded by miserable, middle aged suits.

Man picking (mercilessly digging) his nose.

You disgusting moron.

Not even 30. Given up.

Rather be sitting at home binge watching Netflix with one hand down your pants

the other feeding your drink addiction.

Phil is your name.

Shirt untucked. Living an alter ego online as a 23 year old girl named Stacey

chatting up unsuspecting men.

Your a bitch. Your boss sucks the life out of you.

Same cold, grey office. Every. Single. Hour. Every. Single. Day.

Ooo, a seat!


Get a load of this guy.

28. GQ is your bible.

Well groomed. Regular gym.

However, you’re uninteresting.

Too vain to have any interest in the world.

This is reflected in your empty. White apartment.

No books. No Character.

Crap reality television on a ridiculously oversized TV paid for with inheritance.


The carriage, as packed as a train from Hungary to Munich, now an empty, solitary place to collect thoughts.

Grinding metal on the tracks. Headphones leak music.



Pace through Brixton station. Don’t be late.

Against the grain.

No one commutes TO Brixton.

No eye contact. No problems.


Good morning SCA.

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