Life in the mundane

Waiting

The train station was a grey pit, it reeked of stale smoke and disappointment. I sat on a cold, plastic bench, my back to the wall, legs stretched out in front of me. The bench had graffiti on it. Love declarations, crude sketches, and someone named Sarah who could apparently perform miracles for a price with a number to call. The pigeons strutted around, acting like they owned the place. Their small heads bobbed with every step, picking at crumbs and cigarette butts.

Across from me, a young couple argued. The girl's face was flushed with anger, and the guy looked like he'd rather be anywhere else than here. I watched their hands gesture wildly, her pointing fingers like accusations, his open palms like weak defenses. No sound reached me, but I filled in the narrative. It was always the same script. He had done something stupid. She was done with him, He wasn't ready to call it, but has nothing else to give.

Near the ticket booth, an old man with a face like crumpled paper leaned on his cane. He eyed the digital clock on the wall. I could tell he'd been waiting a long time. Hell, we'd all been waiting a long time. The digital screens numbers blinked. 17:47 PM. The train was late, of course. It always was.

A mother with two kids tried to keep them entertained. They ran circles around her, squealing, their little shoes slapping and dragging along the dirty tiles. She looked exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that went beyond physical. She caught my eye and gave a weak smile. I nodded, a silent salute to her endless battle.

The passenger announcement system crackled, spitting out static and garbled information . No one paid attention. We'd all learned that the words coming from that speaker were as unreliable as the trains.
A man in a suit, his tie loosened, briefcase at his feet, scrolled through his phone. He sighed heavily, then glanced up, hoping for a miracle. No such luck, pal. Not here, Not now.

I pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag. The smoke curled up and mixed with the station's stale air. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the nicotine buzz, a small comfort in this waiting game.
My life felt like this train station. Dirty, worn out, full of people passing through, taking turns in my thoughts but never a main stay, always looking ahead but never really going anywhere.

A rumble in the distance caught my attention. The train was finally approaching. People gathered their things, moving closer to the edge of the platform. The old man stood up straight, eyes brightening with a glimmer of hope. The arguing couple stopped, a temporary truce. The mother herded her kids, pulling them close, in control.

I took one last drag, then flicked the butt away. The train screeched to a halt, doors sliding open with a hiss. People poured out, a flood of faces, some relieved, some weary many I'll never see again. I stayed seated, watching the exchange of bodies and souls. The clock blinked again, 17:52 PM.

I'd get on eventually, but for now, I was content to watch, a spectator in the theater of the mundane. Life is just a series of waiting rooms, and we were all just trying to get somewhere, anywhere. Maybe today, tomorrow, or maybe never. It didn't really matter. The train always came sooner or later, and there was always another bench, another station.

I stood up and boarded, to finally sit alone again.