There are many people who arrive at the station. And they’re all alone. Sometimes they arrive in pairs, sets of ten, dozens… Millions every day. But they are all alone. The solitude follows them closely, gazing from the shadows. And so the feeling of missing… It’s the most delicate of the human feelings, but one of the most painful. And here, in the station, it’s more present, getting heavier over every shoulder like one ton of lead, like one of that very salty tears. Sometimes, the feeling of missing is the solitude, sometimes the solitude is the feeling of missing.
The people who arrive at the station are of many ages. Most of them bring the wrinkles like trophies, deep furrows of wisdom that time engraved like a craftsman engraving wood. But there are the ones who arrive young. Some are children in tender ages, that could bring over their backs the wings of angels – and who knows if they won’t? There are also the ones who are carrying warm kisses of love, and these are the saddest of all.
The people who arrive at the station have many faces. Some of them arrive sad. Others, curious. Many of them make prayers, the last hopes of the human kind. In the station, everyone is safe, but there are still the ones who look scared. There are even the resolute, the only ones who bought tickets, which carry the sad suicidal decisions. And there are the serious and wistful ones, who keep thinking about the meaning of everything. But some of them – few, actually – smile from the depths of their hearts, maybe because they understood the truth that they had always looked for, or because they just discovered that, at the end, it was all a big and funny joke.
Not one of the many people that arrive at the station carries heavy luggage or suitcases. They don’t carry anything, actually. But, at the same time, they carry everything. They carry themselves, which is everything they have now and everything they always had. None of them knows where are they carrying it to, but some of them keep trying to guess during the interval of one prayer or another.
There are many people of many colors, races and social classes, many speakers of many languages, many believers of many religions. At the station, they are all the same. They always were, but just now they realized it. People say that you just see what’s important when it’s too late.
When it’s time, all of them enter the train.
It’s the last metaphor. It’s the last euphemism. (G.P)
The people who arrive at the station are of many ages. Most of them bring the wrinkles like trophies, deep furrows of wisdom that time engraved like a craftsman engraving wood. But there are the ones who arrive young. Some are children in tender ages, that could bring over their backs the wings of angels – and who knows if they won’t? There are also the ones who are carrying warm kisses of love, and these are the saddest of all.
The people who arrive at the station have many faces. Some of them arrive sad. Others, curious. Many of them make prayers, the last hopes of the human kind. In the station, everyone is safe, but there are still the ones who look scared. There are even the resolute, the only ones who bought tickets, which carry the sad suicidal decisions. And there are the serious and wistful ones, who keep thinking about the meaning of everything. But some of them – few, actually – smile from the depths of their hearts, maybe because they understood the truth that they had always looked for, or because they just discovered that, at the end, it was all a big and funny joke.
Not one of the many people that arrive at the station carries heavy luggage or suitcases. They don’t carry anything, actually. But, at the same time, they carry everything. They carry themselves, which is everything they have now and everything they always had. None of them knows where are they carrying it to, but some of them keep trying to guess during the interval of one prayer or another.
There are many people of many colors, races and social classes, many speakers of many languages, many believers of many religions. At the station, they are all the same. They always were, but just now they realized it. People say that you just see what’s important when it’s too late.
When it’s time, all of them enter the train.
It’s the last metaphor. It’s the last euphemism. (G.P)
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