Thoughts of a Train Traveller

I sat on the platform screaming at the guard, like a boil spewing pus as it burst. He was a derelict man who was well overdue for demolition. He was lost in the world of railways and my screaming was not getting though. The rail service had performed his lobotomy to the book.

The loudspeaker annihilated my sense with a crackled hum; a voice came over that sounded like a hyena on LSD, at that annoying pitch that makes you cover your ears and recite nursery rhymes just to keep your mind off of the words, which make no sense, coming out of the metal torture apparatus just above head height.

I perused the line, expecting the train I am sure Mr. Hyena had just announced to appear, only to see nothing but empty tracks, which seemed to be laughing at my predicament. It was now forty-five minutes since I arrived at this station and somewhere along the line I must have slipped into a time warp, because there had not been a single train in that period of time. My gut was pleading to be fed or else it would consume my body from the inside out.

Could it get any worse?

The train ambled (for want of a better word) into the station and showered myself and my fellow passengers in a nauseating stench. Should I board this train without first being inoculated against all forms of disease? If any of the heinous creatures departing the train now were anything to go by, an iron lung was probably more suitable. However, another hour here would turn me into an infested carcass anyway.

This must be the government payback for being a student and not paying income tax for the past five years.

The oceans of green grass (as if it would be any other colour!?) float out of either side of the me and the trees have dropped anchor and moored in the docks that line the train windows. I’m sure I don’t actually move, but there are two people attached to the end of the train, spinning handles to make the scenery go fast, slow or stop.

I wonder if they pay income tax.

I also hope they don’t go out of sync or my head will surely explode.

Maybe it’s just one person who uses both arms? If it’s true, I’m glad I’m not on the London to Edinburgh express.

To my left is blue sky, untouched by clouds, painted by an artist; to my right is a view that resembles a battlefield scarred with clouds and a dying sun. I make pictures from the clouds and shoot the aeroplanes I see with my imaginary anti-aircraft missiles; all this just to prevent myself from falling asleep.

My stomach is now yearning for a McDonalds. It must be desperate.

Ten more minutes and this journey will be over and I can look forward to food, beer and a night at the seaside. Knowing my luck, I’ll wake up to find it’s all been a dream – or possibly a nightmare – and I’m still sitting at the station I originally started from. Mr. Hyena is shaking me and saying, “The next train to arrive on platform three is going to Hell…”

THE RETURN JOURNEY

I am a pampered celebrity in the society around me. The rain falls in a complicated drizzle, as the Gods above me urinate on the land below. The wind is blowing hard from the sea and it whisks my off my feet and on to the train for the return journey back to Mr. Hyena.

I stayed an extra day in this coastal palace, which will fuck up my schedule no end, but life is for living today, so why worry about tomorrow? It will never come in my lifetime.

My journey has already been hampered by a mobile phone carrying character with a mountain of luggage and telescopic eyes that appeared to feast on my body, soul and thoughts. The schism was an aura around him and I felt uneasy in his gaze. He lumbered on up the train and my smile came out from behind the clouds.

There are no companions in my carriage so I am left to my own devices. I masturbate my brain to ejaculate thoughts with which to brighten my travels, but, I’m still lost in the chasms of last night’s lust and at this minute I have no intention of climbing out into the blizzard of reality.

My cage is secure and I’ve locked it from the inside.

The cars float down the tarmac rivers under the bridge on which we have stopped. We edge forward slowly as if afraid of what lies ahead. Maybe the earth is flat after all and we will be thrown from the world and spiral into space. It didn’t happen on my outward journey, so I see no reason why it should have changed.

I’ll reserve this space to be cynical and watch the cows charge at the raindrops.

The train continues to meander through the countryside, a cumbersome metal carriage. A portable machine drip-feeds music into my ears and I tap my foot as my subconscious takes hold.

Suddenly I am reminded of the second confrontation with Mr. Hyena that is imminent. A noxious acid in my stomach rises to burn my oesophagus and mouth. I resist the temptation to be sick and swallow my first meal of the day. It doesn’t fill me up so I repeat the act and confuse my stomach into thinking I have eaten. It is nice to know that at least one part of my body still behaves like a child.

I think how children are a dying breed; adulthood is too quick to jump from the flickering shadows to embrace our childhood in a deathly suffocating crush. I close my eyes to blot out the image and sleep.

I reach for my cigarettes but eye the NO SMOKING sign with apprehension. My better judgement decides against lighting up. Sometimes life sucks, especially as I have paid for this seat and my luxuries are snatched away from me like sweets are from a naughty… child? Young adult? Maybe Mr. Hyena will be a blessing after all.

I finally arrive at my destination and make my way to the kiosk, where I can purchase food. I can also have a cigarette.

I light up a calming stick of cancerous tobacco and inhale deeply, blowing smoke rings that are immediately ripped apart by the ever-increasing velocity of the wind. I let out a gust myself, stamp out the cigarette and board a new train for the remainder of my journey. I turn on my personal stereo and replenish the drip, sit back and relax with a packet of crisps. I crunch the bones of wheat, which my gut rapes in the bushes. I close my mouth as I eat so that the screams are not released.

As I reminisce about the past forty-eight hours, I cry venomous tears and lick my burnt lips so that they may not crack when I smile.

And smile I do, for Mr. Hyena was on his day off.