My eyes followed him until the train, gathering speed quickly, pulled away and he was suddenly out of sight. Silently, I harboured a thought and wished the luggage was mine, that I was the one hurrying to catch the train to the airport (or was he not?). The suitcase would be packed with basic essentials, a sweater, books, and maybe a magazine – a mix of necessary and comfort items. Perhaps I might not know where I was flying to (where would the destination be?), but the thought of leaving this place, taking a breather, being physically away – it was a liberating and seductive thought.
Raffles Place. The train doors opened, and I walked into the middle space, that hollow platform hosting temporary sojourners. The air smells of rain, that rain smell that is present whenever imminent raindrops are about to fall from the sky; the harbinger of downpour; the pregnant promise of stale air and drudgery erased by nature’s messengers. I drew a deep breath to fill myself with expectant rain-tinted vigour.
Tanjong Pagar.
Outram Park.
Tiong Bahru.
Redhill.
The train slid out of its hidden shell and its stifled roars spread into the open space, turning into more temperate murmurs.
It was night. The sky’s dark. There was no rain.
The train continues to trudge above the nightlife happening below. The writings on my notepad started to fizzle out. Inspiration is as ephemeral as thought. Or dreams.
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