The Waiting Room

I don't lead a very exciting life. Like any other teenager, I indulge in the regular little fancies of daily life, that bring momentary sparks of pleasure into my inconsequential existence. I havent achieved any major goals as yet, and dont really think have experienced enough in this world to have any authority to talk about "life" in general. What I can do however, is share some thoughts and ramblings about the mini-version of the life that i've seen.

As I view it, Life is the waiting room of a secluded railway station. People come and people go, they stay a while, talk and chat and share and relax...then with the next train of events, next carrier of destiny, move out of that stationary room in your heart, leaving behind some memories, some belongings, some riminscience of their brief encounter. Some stay longer than others, and some just come and go and are forgotten as the next change of passengers come into the room. Sometimes, the waiting room is full of interesting folk, who share a few moments of joy, or maybe even sorrow. At other times, its just a vacant space, waiting for the next train to come and fill its emptiness.

Most people that spend time in the room, share stories. Stories of old and new times, of good and bad moments, of pain and elation. While its raining outside, these people sit and sip steaming hot tea, eat a few crushed snacks of their tied up bundles and suitcases. Some instead, choose to just stay in one corner alone, and lie on the wooden waiting chairs, maybe sleeping, maybe just trying not to make their presence felt. Eventually, they all know that these are just a few moments, between the complicated time-tables of busy trains, that they will get to spend in this station. They know, that come the time of the next train, carefully picking up their modest treasures, they will leave. What they might take is a couple of number, contacts...which might also just eventually get lost somewhere in those millions of loose sheets of unused paper piles, which hold the remains of meetings similar to the one in this waiting room. There...here's the next train...move on...

Then there are those passengers whose mere existence leaves a mark on the mind...a mark so permanent that no amount of change can wipe it out. But, as is quite obvious, such passengers of life are few, rare and far between. They might even just spend an hour's time in life's waiting, but even that little time spent together etches such a rock-solid image on the walls of the room, that not even the pureness of watery tears can wash away these images. So deep are the footsteps, that they entwine with the basic roots of existence. These few people in life are what remain, even after they have caught their next train, in the essence and aura of the waiting room...

...The waiting room...which I call Life.