The last train of the night has left. It is a Saturday night. People have left work early. The last remnants at the station are beggars, blind and deaf. Their laughters pierces ears that still hear. Ears like mine. What am I doing wandering in the middle of the night at an empty railway station? I do not know. I guess I was not sleepy. The trouble with being a neurotic, half educated pseudo philosopher is that you tend to think too much on topics too silly. I wander through the red tiled platforms; my feet clinking on the cold red tiles. The cold is getting to me. Mom and dad have no idea where I am. They are fast asleep. An advantage provided by sleeping pills and old age. I, unfortunately lack on both sides.
So far, it has been unadventurous. The dogs have started strolling the roads. A couple of them give me the eye. They don't like intrusions into their area, in their time. We are so much like dogs. Marking territories, showing aggression and empty threats. How human. I stroll past the largest black one standing on the side. He watches me pass with a curious eye. Sort of like the bouncer outside a pub, where you are not allowed to enter. Ready to pounce at the slightest twitch. If he did, it would be an interesting story that I will have to make up. But why am I writing about dogs? Well, at least I am writing.
The walk does help ease up the cold sneaking through my bones. It has grown chilly in the last couple of days. Reminds me of the days when i was a child. When it was easier to play around and not worry about anything. When life was a lot easier. When writing was a lot easier. I used to write very regularly then. In diaries, in notebooks. I don't know when I started. I stopped a couple of months ago.
It became very difficult. My work sapped away my energy. Everything seemed like a damn chore. I had to get up to go to work. My health started going down. Samson's hair had been cut. Spending six hours in front of a screen, working on words, did not leave any words for me to put on paper when i got back home. The one thing I was good at, was the one thing I could no longer do. It was frustrating.
I write this today. In hope, that writing might come back to me. A faint hope, that I might start work on what I love. I need to. I want to. I. Have. To. Write.