The train whistle

There is nothing lonelier than the wail of a train whistle at five o'clock in the morning.

To the rising man it signifies the start of another long day.

To the one still up from the night before it is the same, only a longer one and more hopeless one.  If there is to be surcease from sorrow it is yet to come and may not come at all.

The world that slept and rested during the long dark hours begins to rise and those who sat the silent watch of endless minutes, watching the seconds creep by, face even more seconds, more minutes and hours of time creeping by, slower and slower and slower.

It is when the mind speeds up that the world becomes unbearable.  That must be how it is on speed, but what about the mind that never needs speed?  The mind that races on its own through tunnels of dreams and thoughts and places in between?

Like the train it is stuck on a track not of its own choosing, a risen rut where it zooms along to somewhere inconceivable.  Totally unprepared.  Worn out with getting there only to race on to some other unknown place.

There is nothing lonelier than the wail of a train at five o'clock in the morning.