"Waiting is a part of travel. We anticipate the arrival of the train."
Spotify music plays in my ears, as the train swooshes past me to a stop. The distinct two warning bells sound, warning pedestrians of the incoming train on the track (In case they try to kill themselves, I suspect).
I must blog more, I tell myself. I like the sense of belonging, even if it is only in the sphere of the cyber world. A sense of fellow beings, a spirit of kindredness. No judgement, other than sharing of opinions. Not that I was ever much of a blogger, or a bearer of any deep thoughts.
Everything is so on the surface, so, fleeting. Why is everything so, fleeting? The iron or whatever metal footstep like things that decorate the train station platform, have been removed. Stolen, I imagine by hooligans. Sniff. Now an ugly space, on the otherwise pretty station platform. Dirty with wear and tear. Mostly, by a minority if the population tied to this limbo lifestyle, as we go about our lives.
All of us, like. Ghosts. While we have specific schedules, get off work, get on the train. We go home. Then there are the regulars. Those people who aimlessly ride the train, back and forth. A sort of refuge, to a lifestyle I hope is fleeting.
Waiting. Forever for the next thing, whatever that is. Right now, for my next stop. The next blog post. This moment, gone.
Anticipation killing now, for later.