When I was a child, I used to sit on the pavement every day at 5 PM in the neighbourhood to mull over one of the compelling sights. Filled with ecstasy, I stretched my sight until it reached the horizon. There, I saw red and yellow spots entangled in a forest of bushes. The colours were fast to spot, yet I managed to distinguish them. You know what I had in mind?
I thought it was a train heading somewhere; I never knew where. Because I never saw a train nor ride one when I was a child, the thought of having one speeding in the horizon made me feel euphoric. It carried my childish hopes back and forth, the breeze of the evening caressing my skin, the last thread of the sunset fading away.
I thought trains were vehicles of God. As for the colours, they were of headlights and taillights of the hasty cars. I grew to know it was a highway to another city, a different world, in fact.
I am now submerged in a frenzy of nostalgic memories. I go sit in that very pavement, sometimes, and all I see is a forest of concrete…
No matter what happens, the moment I saw the dance of the lights shall ever be engraved in the depths of my memories, and I shall always think there’s a train there, roaming the world aimlessly, and I shall believe it’s God’s vehicle heading to an unknown destination. The thought might seem unfathomable to some. For me, it is a pile of intricate yet graspable sensations that shall remain intact.