At the Platform

The voice announces another train. She sounds weary, tired of her job. How long has the tape repeated these same trains, same metal boxes travellin on these same iron rails? How long have these trains sailed back and forth on these same rails, looking for a place where they can finally stop?

I sit on the Cardiff Central station, watching these behemoths devour people on their daily commuter-communion. Sacrificing another day for their jobs, to support their families, to pay off mortgages, to live their boxed-up lives.

I sit on the pavement, leaning on to a cold stone wall. People give me odd stares, but I don't mind. I'm used to odd stares. Too young men are discussing about the trains always being late. Just when they get heated up, the train arrives in schedule and leaves their complaints lingering in the air as they both get in. Personnel blows the whistle and the iron behemoth growls before setting off.

Sun colors every surface, wind blows used train tickets and receipts back and forth. It's almost cold. But my train is yet to come. I sit here, listening to Tom Waits sing a song about Singapore.

People gather around as another one of these monsters approaches. I'd like to yell at them. "DON'T GO IN! CAN'T YOU SEE IT'S A TRAP?!" But I don't. I know that in due time I'll be trapped, just like them. Just like yesterday. Just like today. Just like tomorrow.

This next monster is about to swallow this exceptionally beautiful young black girl. She has curly hair, which the wind keeps constantly throwing at her face until she ties it with a purple bandana. I realize I'm staring when she suddenly looks into my eyes. I turn my eyes away, pretending to be really interested in the rails. When I try to look at her one more time in all the secrecy the crowded and busy station platform provides, I find her eyes still looking into mine, capturing my sight. This was unexpected. She smiles at me lightly. That smile touches something inside of me. i'm not sure what it is, but while my mind is still thinking about what it might be, my body decides to panic and turns my head away.

The voice in my head shouts "No! No! No! You fucking moron, smile back!" I turn back at her, but she's already about to board the screetching monster. I feel stupid, but on the inside I'm smiling. Her smile is drawn into my soul, and the memory of this short incident I shall carry to my grave, where I'll place it delicately, carefully between all those traumas and rejections that I have faced, and that are yet to come.