You will, one day, find yourself standing at the very edge of the railway line. Right at the spot where if the train passed at its usual speed, the force will either pull you in, or force you away from your spot. Your grey hood, which has endured the rain, sun, dust, and sweat for months now, will be carefully pulled to cover just enough portion of your face; enough to keep you hidden; enough for bystanders to know that your face is a home of wrinkles, tears, pain, acne and a whole load of hopelessness.
Your hands will be in your pocket, caressing the tiny bits of the shredded piece of paper you initially thought of leaving behind. You will old them in between your fingers, getting the last feel of your life, split into sections of childhood, growth, school, recklessness, choices.
There will be a little rain, and when the petrichor will hit your nose, it will smell like yesterday’s leftovers. It will smell like sadness and pain, freedom and peace, life and death. It will smell like everything you ever wanted, but always too far for your reach; like fire, high voltage, ocean floors and night skies.
You will sniff. Continually. And like a small child, you will let the mucus run through onto your cracked lips, into the mouth. It will taste like salt. Or vinegar. Or baking soda. But that will be far from what you will be thinking about.
Taste, just like life, will have lost meaning to you.
You will wait for the horn to sound, but it will take its time, just like all other things you long for have. Like freedom from the things that have bound you to the ground: Work, races, people, opinions, expectations, dignity, fear, wants, needs, procrastinations. Like the finish line whenever you are trying to run away from adversities; weird dreams, emotional trauma, physical fights.
Like your heart and soul whenever you try to find meaning and happiness in the things that you do. Or your mind whenever you try to find the reason behind things that happen to you.
So you will wait. And wait. Then wait. All the time shifting your weight from one leg to another. Not out of impatience, but because the weight you will be carrying on your shoulders will be too heavy to bear. You will be laden with guilt, failed dreams, sickness, shame and hopelessness.
However, there will be a nagging voice at the back of your head, begging you to give life another chance, even if it would be the last. It will stay there throughout your wait, getting louder and louder by the second. It will speak to your heart, and for the first time in ages, you will try to listen to the almost dead part of your mind, that has been pushing you over your limits.
When the horn finally sounds, you will not hear because you will be lost between two worlds. You will be torn between listening to you and letting it all go. A greater force will pull you towards letting go, but the less force will seem to win because it will be accompanied by a greater voice.
Therefore, when it comes, you will be a second too late to throw your whole body onto the rail. You will slide, but only your right arm will make it to the anticipated place.
You will like there and watch as the pieces fly in every direction. There will be blood, but you will not see because a better part of your face will be covered in it. Nevertheless, the metallic smell of your flesh against earth will remain with you forever, like a badge of honor. Like a mark reminding you of cowardice.
So one day, days later. Or months. Or years later, you will walk past a group of people, and you will notice their awkward glances at you, and their fake smiles whenever your eyes will meet. You will see, beyond their eyes, that there lies a string of questions about what happened to you. Where your right hand went.
But it won’t bother you, because you will have grown enough to realize that beneath each of those people, lay a burden equal to, less than, or greater than the one you will be carrying. And the only reason you will smile back at them, is that you will be glad you gave life another chance.
Because well, you are already learning new things; like doing all the tasks with your left hand.