Train Stations and Memories

You don’t know the ceiling of the train station you use five days a week because you are always rush, rush. Some days are pure hell because of aggravation from passengers mad at world, because their life is in tatters. Tatters? You don’t want to know mine.

Train stations are also thick with humanity, like fish in a fisherman’s net. There’s no time to stare at the ceiling and admire intricate patterns reminiscent of a mini royal palace. I took this picture because there are many railway stations all over the world, that are under-used or not used at all. This particular station might be devoid of passengers, but freight/goods trains still chug along, bringing goods and fuel to a land-locked province.

I once lived in Toronto and used the bus-streetcar-train system a lot. I don’t remember staring at the ceiling. There’s nothing to admire if you are in the pit of the train station, because there are trains zooming ahead above you. I remember the murals on the wall though, very eye-catching. I remember buskers on the London Underground. I called them beggars when I arrived there as a student. I was corrected. They are buskers. They entertain passengers with a little music. Show appreciation with a little change.

The ceiling is pretty in this seldom-used station, but it’s not a station, station. What do you mean? Stations are about memories, why we were there. Happy and painful memories, memories about what was, and is no longer. Memories of firsts: first job; first apartment, first love; first dis-love and first betrayal by a friend.

Nonqaba waka Msimang

Executive Blogger