the next train does not stop at this platform. I watch it slow and admire the silhouettes of strangers through the windows as the carriage passes. every shape I make out of the shadows is a vessel of breath and bones and veins pulsing dreams and disappointments. a blur to me is someone else’s world. through the window I am a stranger waiting for the next train. for a moment I relish the thought of life on the sidelines of someone else’s story, relieved of the reigns of attachment and feeling for anything at all.
in the mid afternoon sun on the platform I can try to read through the masks of my nameless companions. we breathe the same air and find communion in our waiting to be taken somewhere else. every face is a history of hurt and hope, some more worn than others, some better at hiding who and how they are offstage. I wonder where they’re going and if it’s where they want to be. I will never know more than the faces they wear.
there are hours filled with nothing that matters. I lose myself in the rhythm of letters and numbers and there is peace until I think of where I am and the fortune I ignore. on my phone there is footage of cities in flames and graveyards of children they killed. I close my screen and listen to the silence of a world turned away from the screaming.
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