Step Aboard

Body weary, mind drained, you traipse past the sliding glass doorway and out into the bitter, windless dusk. The day is done and the sky bleeds off over the horizon line into a pale purple husk. The day is done, but your journey is far from over.

Sterile lights dot the platform, and the silhouette of a long series of connected buildings oppose you, half-shattered windows show their jagged teeth in the light here and there, and behind their transparent maws are glimpses into the musty, vacant bowels of the architectural cadaver. This is a place of transit, much of its surroundings forgotten and left for nature to slowly reclaim and over a short lifetime spread a layer of damp, deep green moss over the floors, growing a beautiful display of urban decay.

Yet that sight is not for many years to come, and so here you stand presently, waiting for an arrival, the smell of worn metal and drenched concrete subtly scent the air, you can still smell the thickness of precipitation from the since-passed rainfall. The muffled gurgling of water still flows down the rain gutters installed across the length of the station.

To your left, a distant light breaks a path along the dimly lit tracks, a handful of travelers shuffle out along with you, a band of silent strangers who walk together in a mutual communal safety. The train horn blares a solid dissonance about itself, the rhythmic churning of the locomotive's engines draws nearer and louder with each passing second until it is upon the lot of you, squealing down to an eventual halt, ending in a series of fatigued low huffs and the high-pitched whines of wheels in need of a greasing.

Sleeping faces poke out from the shadows of the passenger carts as they creep past, tired mugs of tired old men, soft and dreary expressions from youthful faces, locked in a temporary hibernation as they do their best to bear the tedium of the long-distance excursion with their families. You adjust the straps of your backpack and lean the uncomfortable weight of your carried luggage from one foot to the other and back again. A slow march proceeds up toward the opened doorway onto the train. You fumble in your heavy jacket's pockets for the tickets and are relieved after a second or two of digging and patting as your left hand brushes the sturdy slips.

Before long you arrive at the edge of the train, ticket inspected, the well-outfitted man hands it back to you and instructs you to head down the cart to your right. You tread carefully, arms tilted forward and backward to avoid any rough bumps from your luggage against the peacefully sleeping passengers. You find an empty aisle without too much trouble and heave some of your heavier belongings into the small compartment above. Taking your desired seat, you remove your backpack and place it between your aching feet. Letting all energy leave you, you begin to sink down into the yielding comfort of the cushioned chair until you reach the perfect spot, and before you know it you begin to dream.

What faint images flicker behind your closed eyelids do so  in waves of visions simultaneously vivid and strained. Your day is done and so you dream; your journey will continue as you slumber. In the light of day, your destination will peak out from the fresh radiance of the horizon, and once again shall you strike off into the new day.