Everything smells like s**t.

Just a projection of my inner thoughts on the journey to school, I imagine it'll be presented as a monologue.

It smells of s**t when it rains. Maybe it's all the mud and dirt tracked in, tracked everywhere when the rain doesn't stop and windows are perpetually blurred by rivulets of dirty water. The smell is everywhere. It's in the lines slowly making their way across the floor of the mrt as it crawls back and forth it's set route, who gives a damn if that seat is reserved. It's in the precious Vans that tap nervously around the puddles festering with God knows what, in the boots caked with so much dirt they're more dirt than boot.
It smells like s**t but only when you notice it, when the train stops mid track yet again and they guy that looks like hulk let himself go a little tuts loudly, waking you, waking all of you from your blank stupor. He resumes the textbook silence and all that is left is the whir and the beat of metal on the tracks but it's too late, the smell hits you along with every unpleasant odor in the world, and you notice the creeping puddles edging towards your shoes. You calculate if stepping aside now would draw too much attention to yourself as you stare at the black chunks of s**t floating around, floating toward you.
The line plays and assures that we have arrived, we have made it but it's a lie because the train ahead is stuck at the platform like a stubborn child and the chunk of metal sits in the middle of nowhere, just another obstacle between the rain and the earth. Eager eyes leap up without glancing once away from their pixelated paradise, only to meet the closed doors cheerfully reminding you to mind the platform gap that isn't there.
It still smells like s**t even though the next train is dry, it's in the twitching noses that claim the worker next to them smells like curry, it's in the glares fired at the man who can't whistle but is very optimistic, it's in the girl who looks half dead but stays in a half conscious state because God forbid she loosen her grip on her phone for a second. It's in the grown man with crumpled jeans that won't stop staring as I write this, have you not seen a pen before?? Half the people here are asleep and I want them to wake up, to wake up and see the dead trees that are but skeletons, the rusted zinc roofs on buildings caked with years of moss and dirt, to smell the smell of s**t that still lingers and clings to everything it touches.
When you lace your shoelaces the plastic tips clip off a little at a time, a microscopic slice? And little by little the tips fall away and some day the lace unravels and falls apart.
It smells of s**t when it rains but not because our waters are brown and grey, but because the rain washes away the plastic tips and you can't hide the s**t anymore.

Author's Note

The ending was choppy because I ran out of time/ couldn't think of a better way to end it.