WITH POSTPONED DEPARTURE

 

The train passed. On the third line. By destination or far away. And I'm the one who's been there countless times and regretted it, leaving for the next station. Older, more tired. I don't go there anymore, but I still go to the train station. I sit on the bench. I look at people, at the tracks, at trains coming and at trains, but I don't. I've lost my boldness. Cheer up. Audacity.  And then I stand there, watching the game of life of others who come in and have someone waiting. Or that it's not. And they walk in a hurry. I think sometimes, like me, they don't have the hope of believing in someone's expectation. The defeated gaze, staring at the grey ground trodden by millions. Others walk slowly, trying to hold back their footsteps, as if they were not in a hurry to get home, anywhere, as if the train station was the friendliest place to rest their gaze. And others come in and sit on the terrace, smiling from corner to corner, looking in their purses, in their pockets full of everything, yesterday they put away their change, they shook their trench coats. The train arrives at the other line and they run, out of breath until they are sure they are not left behind. The boy carries the troop bag. Maybe you bring hope in a heavy bag. Or the uniforms and meals of the mothers, eager and always generous. Or his picture, of her kissing his eyes, assuring him that she won't breathe until he returns. We look forward to seeing you. Mothers also go to train stations, carrying baskets and windbreakers. Mothers always have a handkerchief, a towel to wipe their children's mouths or noses, ice cream, chocolate, candy. Stations are places of departure and arrival, of waiting, of encounters and disagreements. They are ugly in waiting and beautiful in arrivals. They can be washed if there are years of waiting or even months for us to see them again. Trains stink when they are full and hot, full of joy or fatigue at the end of the day. When we wait a long time for them, it always seems to us that they are the last to arrive, their desired whistles can calm the hearts of those who wait for the arrival, of those who leave for pain.  They are warned, figures late, tired too and driven by drivers who want the footrest, the end of the line for today, for this week. On weekends, banks are full of people waiting. On those days, I try to go earlier and even try to believe that I will have the courage to approach and enter it. And I think, at the same time, of the many times I did it and forced myself to leave shortly after. I have seen many like myself, without courage and without joy, who throw the sack on the benches and throw themselves into desperate thoughts for a distant late afternoon, by the sea or by any river that can shelter us on the banks. This gentleman who was passing by me, carried a piece of paper in his hand and manipulated it between his fingers, as if distracted, he saw no one or perhaps he saw him askance, he remained indifferent to the landscape and unconscious of himself, of the thoughts he carried. The woman walked up to him and grabbed his hand, forcing him to let go of the distraction and face her. He took off his hat and she took the paper out of his hands. He didn't protest, he didn't challenge, but he was apprehensive. After looking at the paper, he put it in the pocket of his trench coat, put his arm on it, and directed it towards the exit of the station, where the light blew his eyes and they became diffuse figures like trains before reaching the station. Before, train stations were more romantic places, now they are more resting places for sad people trying to find a rest on the tracks that puts their hearts on pause, the place where these great vehicles arrive that take us and bring us to destinations that are always the same and where beings multiply and hurry, as if they did not always arrive on time, as if they were rare, as if perhaps, by losing this one, they would lose them all, altering the really important factors of life, altering their interests or their lives. There are trains that never leave and others that never arrive at their destination. And lives harvested by them that are never forgotten and others that seem to have never existed before the confrontation.  And I always go back to it, scrutinizing the lines as perspectives of human choices, feeling the lack of pulse and audacity, the absence of life within me to catch that train on line three that would take me, perhaps, to the desired destination. 

And I let them pass as my life, I let them breathe as if it were me in the sighs that accompany the beating of my heart for a long time, and I never leave myself alone, because I don't accept my inertia and my fear of the trains of the third line. And the kiosk at the entrance, which is still at the exit for many, sells the old and the new, all mixed up in everyday fragments, loose, as lives are when they are freed from their original format and extend into the lives we are trying to guess.

Today, the day has shadows, the building itself is darkened by the lack of joy on the faces of others, the trains all arrive late, they say there are trains suspended and others that stagnate. They talk about the strikes of drivers who need better living conditions, who want more footrests, who have women at home, who are dedicated to their return home, who deserve to go on vacation, who want to go on vacation, even if it's once a year, but without using the train as a means of catching them. I like trains, especially line three. If there wasn't such a line, maybe I'd stop coming to this station almost every day, if there wasn't, maybe my days would be more boring, or maybe I'd be braver myself and find a way to kill the dream, on a rail.

When it's time to walk through the exit of the station, I always tell myself that tomorrow I won't turn back and that if I can avoid doing it, maybe I can even do it forever.  In the meantime, I can already see the shadow of day looming, accompanying my exit from the station, the pedestrian crossings darkening, people mingling in their smiles and speeches, The bags and suitcases disappear from their hands, just with this thought so mine and so long in their stay in me. What shall I do if I don't come tomorrow to visit line three, the trains that park there, which I know by heart, the usual faces of the brave and the distracted who get on and off it without even noticing that this train that scrapes the rails of the three picks me up and brings me without ever leaving the seat?   cowardice, lack of strength. And I walk, pushing myself off this path that has held me back for so many years and I try to imagine that one day I will be able to resist seeing my hope die, my fantasy, preventing me from walking it. What I'm going to do to myself after this is another thought that I don't want to carry anymore. Or, on the contrary, maybe I'll come back, not tomorrow, It will be too early to regain strength and courage, but who knows, the day after tomorrow I can do it, enter the station, go to the ticket office and without stuttering, ask for the one-way ticket for line three, but no return to the station, no return to the place, to home, To the same thing it brings me chained, to the apathy of this old me that wants to get rid of fear, and maybe I'll win this new life, maybe if my smile unfolds, maybe I'll find my joy again, maybe I'll understand that I don't need to despair anymore with this train, yes,  For once, I have the ability to overcome this old fear and let myself go to the end of the road as a threesome.