At the old junction, of this broken hometown, I take a train to past, I sit, and stare. I sit and hear. The train isn't fast or slow, how do I know, the path to past, is the one that takes me where I once smiled, a newborn smile after death.
Train stops late, I reach a different future instead. The past rushed away, like people with heavy luggages and rare smiles. I touched same leaves, walked under same canopies, and tried to find a trail, any left over of my presence. How beautiful, that the places stay the same, untouched, as a huge crowd walks, and walks away. How scary too. No remains.
The melancholic air, reminds me, of a life lived like a dead. Of myself fading through the days of my own history. I should have kept memoirs in jars and buried them somewhere. Just to know, there was something worth remembering.
Oh how the happiness even came with the sorrow of uncertainty. How the flower begining to breathe, wondered about the last breath.
Do you ever stand, and try to talk to the person that a river reflects? I startle easy, by the oldness residing under by eyes, and the wrinkles growing on my hands. I startle easy, by the person who never looks like I imagine myself, yet talks like me. My reflection is a stranger, I meet every time, a little more strangely. How do I recognize myself?
Yet again, when the winds have been hushed to sleep, and the river refuses to reflect, and the trees wish to stay silent, there's another junction waiting for me, to take me back to my reality. Where every breath I have taken better, just pulls me back to my puddle. Where death doesn't haunt, rather comforts.
Did I tell you, smiling is somehow heavy, and it's heavier in the moment you know you're smiling, and you know you don't want to anymore? Did I tell you, happiness stops at an arm's length, the days you don't remember how to believe you deserve it?
So I wait, at the junction, for another train, and maybe somewhere between past and future, the train will halt somewhere peaceful.