Matt - The Station

The man peered over the edge of the station platform. The tracks stretched far away in either direction, converging at a distant horizon, eventually dissolving into a fog which seemed more like a memory than a mist. Everything was daubed in shades of grey, as if the world was bathed in ashen light. The air had a texture, almost palpable, settling on the palate with a thin, metallic zest.

The atmosphere was eerie. Peaceful, yet hummed with mystery. A train rolled by with an unnerving quiet, the faces in the windows bearing expressions ranging from dour to pensive.

A figure moved in the periphery of his vision. A barefoot man carrying a surfboard, barefoot, possessing an unfettered serenity, in contrast to the strange ambience suffusing the station. His gait was pronounced, moving with a profound sense of purpose. A second man was seated on a nearby bench, his face blank, enthralled in quiet contemplation.

The sky above the station was an undulating whorl of greys. Not quite cloud, surreal and oneiric, as if dreamt into being. The unvarying shades betrayed no sense of time’s passage. Shapes briefly flicked into being amongst the broiling folds and fractals, only to dissolve into formlessness.

The man paced, the ground seemed insubstantial, the place feeling transient, as if ceaselessly in the act of becoming. He stole another glance at the surfboard man, then his eyes darted to the seated man. His curiosity eventually bettered him, tentatively asking “Been…here long?” to the seated man. The man jolted out of his reverie and weighed the question. Reservedly, he said “Awhile. Time is strange here. Sometimes it feels as if I’ve been waiting forever, other times, but a moment.”

The first man nodded, intrigued. “Waiting…. for what?”

The second, seated man let out a sigh and shrugged. “I’m not sure myself. Answers. Direction. Closure? But there is none of that here. Just the trains, the emptiness, and….us.”

Suddenly, Surfboard Man put a voice to his visage, addressing the two men.

“I suggest that you board before the tide recedes”.

The first man, though bemused by Surfboard Man’s cryptic suggestion, engaged him, hoping for a semblance of insight into their predicament.

“Who might you be?” he asked. “And what’s with the surfboard, by the way?”

With a faint smile bordering between mirth and understanding, he said “Oh, I’m a traveller. I’m just passing through.”

Not much of answer…the first man thought but continued with his most pressing question.

“And…. where are we?”

“Here.” Surfboard Man said simply, vaguely gesturing to the station around them. “And now.”

This time, the first man vocalized his discontent.

“That’s not an answer” he said.

Surfboard Man leant the surfboard against his shoulder, as if it were a natural accessory to this strange station, replying “It’s the only answer. The Station exists in between. Names, places…it cares not for your tidy categories. It just is”.

Maintaining his unusually serene demeanour, he continued. “This isn’t always a station. Sometimes, it’s a river. There, I carry an oar. Other times it is a branch on a mighty tree. There are three of us then.”

The first man quietly acknowledged, then Surfboard Man quickly asked “Tell me…. what is your name?”

First man opened his mouth in anticipation of satisfying this simple request, only to find, to his utter bewilderment, that enunciation was impossible. “I…I” he began, but bizarrely, found himself unable to even think of his own name. His only recourse was a vacant, open mouthed stare.

Seated Man suddenly re-joined the conversation. “I don’t know either”, he added, his own expression now a mixture of bemusement and pensiveness. “All I remember is sitting in my living room, reading. I gradually dozed off….and here I was”.

Surfboard Man gave a wry, knowing smile, pleased with this glimmer of revelation he had induced.

The first man narrowed his eyes. “You know something. About us. Why we’re here.”, his tone now both accusatory and frustrated.

“I do.” Surfboard Man replied, patting the polished fibreglass of his surfboard. “But I’m not your answer. I’m just…a reminder. A guide.”

“A reminder? A guide…to what?” The first man pressed.

“If you don’t know where you want to go, there’s no point waiting for a train. There’s something you need to see or decide. The Station just holds space until you are ready.”

“Ready for what?” The first man asked. “Awakening? Moving on? To—”

“That” Surfboard Man interrupted, “depends entirely on you. Call it purgatory, call it a dream, but no word fits. It’s a pause. The space between thoughts. The silence between sounds.”

Surfboard Man assumed another wry smile. “Yes. Don’t ask what The Station is. Ask why The Station is.”

With that, he began to walk away, quickly dissolving into a hazy silhouette. Just before assimilating into the misty haze beyond the platform, he turned back and quipped “A surfer never names his waves”.

A short while later, a train approached with a quiet rumble, ominous and inevitable.

“Someone has chosen”, the first man said.

Seated man arose to his feet. “My heart is heavy, with grief. I’ve lost two of my friends. My beloved dog. It’s why I’m here.”

He entered the doorway of a train carriage, turning back to the first man. “I don’t know what’s ahead.…but it’s time to move on.”

“Goodbye, friend.” The first man replied, feeling the weight of the impending departure in his heart.

The train closed its doors with a sibilant hiss and rumbled out of the station.

The first man now found himself alone. He sat on the bench and watched the distant horizon envelope the departed train. Only now, he was not bothered as to whether The Station was some shared dream of lost souls, or somewhere deep within the psyche during a time of profound crisis.

He stayed there for some time, feeling impossibly small against the infinite expanse of the station. I can’t stay forever, he thought to himself. But I’ll board before the tide recedes.