Not everything perfect is genuinely content.
This is the very perfection of a man, to find out his own imperfections.Saint Augustine
Station, rain, of course, it’s dark. I approach the neon lights before they disappear underneath the waterfall that appeared on the glasses that got stuck to the nose. I open the door of manly metal and the glass so thin and fragile. I enter in; It’s like passing to a different galaxy, the pace is slow now, it’s warm, people drinking coffee, someone with a beer. It’s an old palace for the train with shining marble floors, wooden signs with people running, people laughing, drinking, reading, and waiting for the train’s majesty to shine its warmth or wrath through the metal scream.
I spent a few moments just witnessing and breathing in the air, which is different from the outside air, more electricity in it, more power, even though it’s calmer.
Or maybe that is precisely what I want to see, the calmness and tranquility, and so I see it. Someone rushing for the train about to leave considers everything as an obstacle, and the surrounding humans- moving blocks or moving guards of static obstacles, same thing.
I felt the need to write my thoughts down, so I went to one of the empty side tables next to a magnificent toy store. The toys were meant for kids. However, the decor and exclusivity seen on the skin of the walls were meant for the parents. The shop looked empty. I started feeling empty, too, next to lonely plushy bears and sad-looking husky dogs.
These toys are expensive. They stand like soldiers on the shelf, considered luxurious and fancy. They get all the breeze of air-conditioned summer and the heated warmth of icy winter. If there were a competition between the toys, this elite would take the glory quickly.
Call them rich. Toys have it all, but like the animated and complex humans, they look lonely and dejected without some tear and dirty mark—cold fur without the warmth of a loving child’s arms.