Southbound, Valhalla and Catwalk
I've lost track of how long I've been here. For some reason it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Time is inconsequential now. This dirty train station, it's blackened windows, choked with coal and dirt, the streaked cement that runs along the tracks, falshes of what used to be white marble here and here but mostly covered by the a thick layer of grime. The wooden bench I've spent so long sitting on, creaking with every breath, as if even this slightest change in movement will cause it's rotten surface to finally crack and break in two. The train has yet to arrive, plenty have come and gone, like night and day, distinct in their own way. But the one that I've waited for, the one that I've always waited for, never seems to arrive, the time always changes. Delays, cancellations, one reason or another keeps it from arriving here, to the place that it's needed most. I've come to accept that, to even expect it actually. It seems an enivatability almost, I don't get my hopes up, even when another traveller tells me, "Hey I think I see your train comin' mister." I don't bother to turn around, why should I. It'll be a trick of the light, a cloud, or just a wishful thought. I'd like to think that one day my train will come, I would like to indulge in all those fanciful hopes that I'll finally be able to sit on it's blush velvet cushions, and stare out at the scenery as it rushes past. But the reality is, I'm stuck here, on this moldy bench, my greying overcoat the only thing to keep me warm, holding a newspaper that I've read over and over a thousand times like it was my firstborn son. It's been awhile since someone sat down and talked to me, they all probably think I'm crazy waiting for a train that never seems to come. Probably think I should give up, think it's hopeless. And as much as it seems to be it isn't, people think that because I've accepted the stark fact that it will probably never come means I'm pessimistic, no, I'm a realist. It's the only thing worth being, nothing comes out of deluding yourself. I did that enough to find out the hard way what comes of it. I may be waiting for this train forever, and that's alright, I'll be content knowing that someday, some turn of fate may send my train speeding into the station. Rustling up all the stray newspapers, steam shooting in every which way, whistles blowing, as if a giant steel parade designed to welcome me aboard. It would make all this waiting, and all the more waiting that I'm going to do, all more worthwhile.