I know that this essay is supposed to be just about the orient express and myself but because of me, I am inclined how I relate to a member of Grey’s Anatomy, and how much I can relate to the train members. I had a topic of my own rhythm that I need to belt out. When you take those silly, pointless online quizzes, you never take them seriously. I didn’t. Even after I got Meredith as the TV character I most resemble, I never gave it a second thought. That is until I watched episode after episode, finding that I could always emphasize with Meredith a made up character seemed made for me. The life full of things to dread. A life is flooded with harsh truths and entire flocks of friends that escape into places that are everywhere except to console her, never mind her breakdown. Her getting slapped by her father made me realize that the emotions hurt worse than any slap a person could give. It was like I was her shadow or she mine. It is like how the detective needed to find parts of the murderer by placing himself in their shoes. “It was done by a woman. I, a man could not deliver such blows” (Christie 89). That is the only way the members of that train remind me of my own life (this similarity) , and it made a lot of sense close to the last page of my reading, that the moments of quiet desperation felt by the murder investigation are felt by myself in equally strong degrees.
People could be my closest friends yet I’d feel so distant like a shadow yet so close and like I didn’t know them at all because of their actions. The knife found in Mrs. Hubbard’s room caused her great distress, like in my life invisible swords made up of words that hurt. “I just can’t tell you how terrible it was. I was always sensitive …the mere sight of blood” (Christie 206). It is this “bloody” life I was, these events that just make me tear up. I weep whenever Meredith is shot down, when she was drowning metaphorically or in reality because I don’t see her, I see myself. In the bathroom, behind the auditorium, in the foyer, in the dark, alone, I can see me a silent sadness. I see a detective stumped the case gone cold. Whenever it’s all wrong, pretend joy is short lived. When everything is wrong, she moves along or gets help along the way, she is helped through it all. My mother too resembles the yelling, shouting and being told you’re not good enough of her deceased mother. It’s like there is no difference between compliments and lies! Everything is essential all the same to me, because isn’t it all the same if I need someone everyone leaves me? They drift like a man lost at sea, further and further away.
It’s like watching Meredith; I want to smash the glass world that separates her life from my own and meet her. I want that which separate us, to disintegrate so we see into each other’s eyes. I want to cry with her, and stand with lost eyes, let her know she is not alone. I feel the members of the train just brush things off that are important, and that mirrors my life. I want to be with someone who feels like me. Because I want to know that I am not alone. All the people that shouldn’t care care A LOT. Nosy people and it’s annoying to explain my “pathetic life story” This is like the people who are curious about the case. And all the people I need in my life simply cannot fulfill the simple duty of being there for me. Just being there. Is that too much to ask? To call me, or to hang out. To comfort me when I’m sad or lost. To bring me the warmth of their smile or their shoulder to cry on. To calm me down, at least try would be beautiful! Isn’t that what friends do? They help each other. They are there, they care! To have your back? They don’t. And I’ve thought of the situation so much it has started to lose all meaning. That is what Poirot understood, that he really had to get under the skin and truly comprehend all elements to discover the truth. Frankly, I want to be stuck in that blizzard in the novel.
Frozen in time, because these continuing tears that rupture my cheeks and burst onto the keyboard. Internal conflicts float as soon as the first tear begins it’s descent down my cheek a path known so well, that it doesn’t even feel real sometimes. I hear the voices of all those “friends” telling me to drop this drama, that I’ll be fine. How do you know that I’ll be fine? For a fact, you don’t know. My sitting here writing this proves I am not fine right now. When I should be celebrating my successes in life, I’m over this dark cloud creating more problems with my dismal doubt. Like Poirot discovering the answer of the case, the case of my life is not solved, the pieces scattered on the carpet like puzzle pieces with people yelling it’s a bird, it’s a dog, it’s the sun. I tell them and you that it’s my life spilling out. Sometimes everything is wrong, and it needs to move along.
More than anything I can’t help the hopeless, trapped feeling I have. Like those on the train who don’t know want they want. Like why can I just be a calm person, mellow and relaxed? Like so what if tomorrow’s better, because life is never without suffering. Why do we suffer? It is said we suffer to gain compassion. It is said we build character. It is this compassion that has made me a fool. Because only now do I realize that I sit alone. My compassion for some is one sided and that is well, it is what it is. Without guarantee from anyone that tomorrow will bring sunshine into my life, I travel alone. I plot a path in my head of where I’ll go. And I will leave this negative persona behind. Because I want to believe the world has good in it, despite everything that disproves that, moving on through is supposedly to make me stronger. If that works, I’ll have the strength of ten men. I will build bridges and put out the flames of the ones that are burning. Until then my mind is in a headlock, tortured more perhaps by words never spoken, then words said. I must, like the detective look beyond the obvious and turn to the“it couldn’t be”. There lies the answer, the secret to life.