It would get dark at 4pm in early winter, so I would sit on the train, rugged up in all my layers and feeling sleepy from the heated seats and soothing rock of the train, back and forth. All around me, Japanese people would be dozing, a mix of exhaustion from life and the sensation of being in a big, warm, moving bed. More than once I would push away the heads of salarymen as they dozed on my shoulder. It was like a long line of dominoes, the dozing men and women so vulnerable and exposed, yet safe because it was Japan.
On the train, in my blanket of warmth and with a thick sense of security, I watched the faces of everyone else. Those awake were either listening to music, staring at their phones or reading novels. Nobody was talking; everyone was strangers to each other, invisible boundaries painted and although physically personal space was non-existent, everyone was the lone inhabitant in their own world.
After a night out by myself, I would lean back into the heated seat on the train embracing me like a blanket, and gaze sleepily out at the towers of apartments, the glimpse of someone’s laundry on the tiny balcony, tiny lights showing the windows, the hints of life seemingly so disconnected from the dreamlike world on the train as it kept rolling forward, its lullaby sending you into a doze.