The morning train...

It could have been just any other day when the whistle of the train cut through the silent contours of the mind, the 5 am light breeze steady n comforting, on a rather soaring summer morning. The slightly fishy smell of the railway station tickled the nose, mind still elsewhere, unable to register the horror of the moment, the crushing weight of reality, heart-beat rising and falling, like an oscillatory motion, which never quite makes its mind up, but just sways...... a little disturbed, a little alarmed, a little presumptous, a little hopeful. To have the slick end of a cutting knife slice up your heart, ever so gently, and yet so sternly, while it clamps your mouth shut with one swife movement of the other free end, and you are left there, wanting to scream, to turn away, to disown the truth, waiting to be comforted that it's just a dream, a bad one at that, but you realise that the ability to speak is somewhere lost. Probably lying there, hurt, on a hospital bed, like a malignant tumor, cutting through the body while one is still oblivious to it's presence, and you want to reach out, drag it out and make it all very right, all very happy...

And then.. at a distance, an insistent whiff of shy mist is seen. Dawn. 6 o'clock. You look at the tickets in hand and board the train. It was, afterall, a day that could've been like every other one... just that it wasn't!