His train of thought halted abruptly as the one he'd been waiting for pulled up in front of him. There was a pause before the doors slid open, as if the train had felt a little reluctant to let its passengers out. It had to though. It was a train. Trains do that.
The platform was swept with the march of dozens of nameless faces. The man stepped back, allowing the crowd to pass by without interference as they hurried towards the station's exit. They were on the brink of sprinting, he noticed, walking as fast as their legs could carry them, taking them past the crumbling walls, out of the crumbling doorway and into the crumbling streets.
The man walked in, took his place in the train and waited silently. The doors shut.
Trains don't do much. What they do though, they do well. Their lives are led by the tracks on which they rest, passively passing each day with such mindless monotony, ferrying workers from their homes to the gates of hell, or offices, as they're more commonly known. They don't feel restricted, of course. They don't know how to feel. They're trains. They just exist.
The man rested his shoulder against the grubby side of the train, sighed, and stared forward. The window framed a majestic sunset. Streaks of magenta lined the clouds as the sun fell further and further behind the horizon. Clouds were scattered across the skyline, painted, almost. In the failing light, buildings left long shadows leaning over the city, falling over the streets as the streetlamps and car headlights blinked into life.
It looked nice, thought the man.
He turned away and scanned the faces that accompanied him on his journey home. Their eyes betrayed the focused emotion painted on their faces. They were empty, like people only ever able to live in dreams, swayed to that state by the sway of the train. Their hands were rigid, grasping briefcases, files and folders, only awoken by the misplaced cheer of a voice as they reached the station. 'You have now reached the station. Please exit safely.' They didn't know how to feel. They were workers. They just existed.
The man exited carefully with a few dozen other passengers. They marched past the crumbling walls, out the crumbling doorway, and into the crumbling streets.
The streetlights are our stars, forming constellations above our heads as we inhale fumes and cigarette smoke.
Beggars lie across stained streets marked with cracks, gaps, and the remnants of old chewing gum and cigarette butts. If you focus hard enough, you might just catch the gleam of unwanted pennies that litter the floor like dust gathering along car dashboards. The homeless seem at peace though, and how could they not be. Staring up with their backs to the ground, there's nothing to do but confuse the city lights for the stars that shine behind them.
The universe can only fade into the background.
'Death is but a moment.'
A pin-drop silence and glares of empty eyes welcomed me as I made my way into the room. The corridor was filled with stale air, sharp to the senses. It permeated every crack of the decaying walls, as if it were desperate to escape. Trapped, like the rest of them there. The further in I ventured, the stronger the taste of the air became, hanging on at the back of my throat. Unpleasant, to say the least. The sooner this was over, the better.
I could feel those eyes on my back. All of them stood helpless, consigned to their miserable fate. I couldn't even make eye contact with any of the pairs of eyes that looked my way. They would die, yes, but it wasn't my fault. I didn't send them here. Society did. Still, I felt partially responsible, seeing as I was the man tasked with the burden of carrying out the dirty work. I took a minute to gather my nerves. A slight mistake on my part. The nerves had bundled up into one giant ball of nerves, and I was starting to feel a little rattled. They could sense it.
A large butcher knife was what they gave me. Brand new, it gleamed in the rays of sunlight that managed to creep through the holes in the grey wall. His bare neck was laid out in front of me across a large wooden block. It stunned me for a moment, how frail life really is, in that I could choose whether he lived or died in that split second when the knife was raised above him. I held my breath and brought down my weapon with as much force as I could muster.
Poor duck didn't even quack.
Your hands are cold,
The heat drained for another episode,
Of smiles, deceit and I know,
I'm only knee deep but here I stand, out of my depth.
Our innocence,
Lost and found in boxes stacked in attics,
Static but complete,
As lips of lovers meet.
You gaze upon the walks,
Leading to a corner,
Silent as I talk,
My words, they seem to wander,
Your whispers shape the air,
With clouds of cold breath,
And I'm left to stare,
As the taillights disappear.
Lyrics to an original song which no-one will ever hear.
