Musings From A Train Platform

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     The stream slowly eases its way through
the landscape, taking a lazy saunter, propelled along by cool breaths of wind. Patches
of pale green algae drift along on its surface, in no hurry to be on their way.
The smooth, glassy surface is interrupted only by tiny teardrops falling from
the steely grey clouds, idly floating overhead. Tall, statuesque shadows are
cast by the trees dotted along the bank, and are only just visible in the weak sunlight
straining to break through the cloud layer. The branches of the willow tree
softly caress the murky waters, swirling through the algae. Leaves gently float
down, dancing and twirling in the breeze.
     The still serenity of the moment is rudely
interrupted by the roaring and clattering of the train streaking past. It doesn’t
break pace, only continues rushing past the platform and off into the horizon.
The world falls silent once more.
     The figure on the platform adjusts his jacket,
pulling it tighter to defend himself from the increasingly cold, biting wind,
whistling in his ears. He is slumped in his seat, hunched over uncomfortably on
the narrow wooden slats cobbled together in a vague semblance of a bench.
Watching the world, and the minutes crawl by. The low murmur of other voices
reaches his ears, and he cocks his head slightly to locate their source. Two
figures stand at the far end of the platform, intertwined so tightly it is hard
to tell where one ends and the other starts. Their voices stop, as they begin
exhibiting what is, in his opinion, a rather obscene display of affection.

     He turns his head away, gazing back down
to the river, so serene and untroubled in its journey, as the world around it
rushes onward. Everything moving, always moving. While he sits here, on a near
empty platform in the middle of nowhere, waiting. Always waiting.  Waiting for the train running late. Waiting
for a change in the endless grey sky. Waiting for the news to break. Waiting for
the phone call, but it never rings. Waiting for the girl who isn’t coming.
Waiting for his life to finally, at long last, begin.

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