Should I miss my train?

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With the soft acoustic strumming and heartfelt strokes on the violin, along with subtle flute blows, affecting the vocals through a delicate touché, I sit back on the train platform shuffling through my playlist.

A casual smile from the cute girl sitting beside, ruffling her hair cutely each time the wind messes them in inappropriate proportions causes a twitch in my smile to widen up. For days, having written nothing of substantial measure, I coerce my cerebrum to connive a short yet meaningful extract of enlightened wisdom that threatens to pull the societal strings down.

The faint whistling sounds of the train serenade through the mist envelope.

A delightful infusion of sandalwood along with lilac rose diffuses through the air as the sound of the train tracks shifting cause a temporal misbalance in time. Suddenly even breathing seems to be a tedious process.

Surrendering to the inflow of air in dissolved apparatuses, I let my lungs expand and in systematic means, expel it out like gushing spirited mint that melts like snow on the tongue. I could feel the syntax of my being, by sound rather than sense, with nuances of breath and motion being conveyed through typographical means to you.

Suspended aerosol particles casually floating midriff, and the haze due to the mist spreading out like a lancer. Footsteps start to materialize like notes of the denomination thousand, which cease to exist before you can see it again. (Don’t worry; this is not a horror story.)

And as the train approaches at an ulterior speed of minuscule contractions and relaxations of the cardiac system, it’s red facade bleeds blue. The Amaranthine hues spread out on metallic twangs of tainted steel. A perfectly crafted engine bloats of its masculinity as it professes its love to the crevices of the tiny shreds of smoke escaping. And as the grey matter seeps in the air, extracting its steep fragrance from the dew-laden wind, the nature of daylight reveals it essence to the flowery dusk.

And I stand up slowly, lest I disturb the periodic variations, the non-linearity of time was showing me. Gaping at the wondrous marvel of time slowing down to its very core, my cheeks yell pink in retaliation. And as I move nearer to the tracks, the air pressure behind me sways casually up and down with variations in sync. Threatening to push me closer to the tracts, it caresses my collar to display restraint even in the most challenging escapades of life. As the first coach arrives, there is serendipity in the occurrence of the unfurling of life.

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A looming enigma canvases virtualisation to its core as past paradigms confer in their memories to create loops of past memoirs and instances from life. To a simpler mind, I could see my childhood flutter like pages of a colouring book. Just this time, they were not coloured. They were blank, yet emoted resonant life. Each coach resembled a bouquet of blemished instances of life that somehow seemed to have captured some passage of time that had been previously inflicted in my life. And, this convergence of the non-linear time frame invited me to take a peak.

All that mattered was one decision. One choice. And I heard a sotto voce, a voice quite sound enough. It said, ‘If you could view your life as an image, a story told in one non-linear and infinite symbol, would you change it?’

And I stood there, wondering whether I take the first step. Relying on a form of semiotic communication that told me a full story unbound by time in one fell swoop, I waited.

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