City And Colour

City And Colour

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.