Tales of Tiny Train Stations

Traveling long distance, when the train goes on incessantly like a good monsoon rain, I feel a beauty growing inside me. A peace falls on the lands it crosses, the moving pictures outside—bioscope.

Glimpses of life and lands, of which I only can know so much. This tiny little country holds so many people! You cannot measure stories by lands, you have to measure them by faces. We are cramped up, one against the other, some of us taking a little more spaces than the next, all bound by a dull strict code, but still, you can only know so much! In here the distances don’t matter. Faces hold different secrets living not far. Luck changes like weather. And the higher up in the ladder one is, the more they live inside themselves, catering only to their versions of reality.

Anyway, yes… I feel a beauty growing inside me.
I love trains.
Whatever storm is brewing inside me, I got to know, a train can put it out.
And when the trains stop in unknown tiny stations, I feel, every time, a delightful sadness.

Maybe it’s high noon and the sun is examining where the flaw is hidden, maybe it’s early dawn and the crows know better and went reflectively quiet, maybe it’s nearly sunset and the wandering madman is looking up at the sky frowning, he has to flip a coin to decide whether the day is coming or the night, maybe it’s midnight and men went to sleep and all the platforms switched off the lights and are having a talk.
The tiny stations hold them all.
The tiny stations caress them all.

I feel an urge, that honestly I can’t succumb to, to get off. A tiny station will come, and I will get off.
But like the crows, I was taught to know better.
So rather, I go reflectively quiet.

My reality, that is made up with half of their ordinances and half of my commandments, barred me from becoming a friend who doesn’t know what friendship is, a lover who doesn’t know what love is.
The tiny stations too… they know. And they’ve seen enough of life, enough of life made their paints go pale, so they know the traps of life that can wait.
They know…
How the wandering madman once paid the price, how he felt a beauty growing inside, how he once got off.