Therapy

His eyes are consoled and untroubled. Slowly, they scan the surroundings. An infinite number of conversations take place around him. The station is a flurry of activity , so busy that he can see agitation dancing above the crowd and scowering up to the sky colored ceiling.
   Slowly his fingers slither into the lint filled pockets of the old navy blue jeans.A moment later, his hands reveal a cracked mp3 player. Its deep chips and scratches suggest extended use.
His fingers pounce a couple of times over the buttons, changing the current song to a more subtle tune.
Observing crowds always called for morecalmer vibrations.

This was therapy. This was his reality. Watching, analyzing. Spending countless afternoons in busy Grand Central Station. He couldn't be any more entertained than this. Groups passed by often speaking in unknown tongue, but every once in a while he would hear the familiar tone of fellow countrymen.
 Although all from a different place, they all share traits he thought. Arguments and fear,curiosity and enjoyment. Smiles, curling their lips. No matter where from, they are all equal.
"We are all so equal" he thought,"all  so equal, yet so different, so unique".

This thought was followed by a familiar vibration in his left pocket.

The call. Therapy session was over. "Back to reality" he thought, as he picked up his checkered bag and disappeared into the streaming crowd.

He was one of them now. The unique ,yet similar crowd...