He sits by the old train station

He sits by the old train station—a cracked and worn hat hovering above a face more or less the same. Are those lines beside his eyes from years of smiles long past, or from squinting into the sun of another hopeless day?

People stare as they walk by. Not the open, wide-eyed stares of carnival-goers, but the furtive half-glances of people half-interested in—or only half-conscious of—his existence. They pass him and go on about their own half-lives. Yet, for those who would notice, he accepts his rank in life with a quiet dignity—a grace sometimes lacking in those fate chose to deem more fortunate. But Fate has always been closer to him than they. Never far off—in the sunshine next to the shadows—Fate has stayed, beckoning for him to face another sunset.

In his eyes is a sort of ragged nobility, and, nestled somewhere within the clear blue traces of those twin skies, is a depth that few would guess, and none could fathom. Those who pass him do not know him. He is just a glimpse in their hurried, time-torn lives. They could never guess the feelings that lie behind his eyes; nor do they realize that he, too, has lived a life. He too has felt warm breezes brush his smiling face. He too has shivered in the biting cold, and laughed and danced in the summer rain. His has been a heart both full and empty. Hopes are not something alien to him, and hunger is more than a desire to be fed.

But where did he come from, this half-glanced at mystery? Where is he going? Does his path stretch far behind him, or, as it seems, has he always been there, seeking the solace of a wall and its shadow? What are his thoughts, his hopes, his fears? What does he see in us, those who walk by and forget him the next moment? What would he say to us if we would only listen?


He sits by the old train station—a cracked and worn hat hovering above a face more or less the same. Don’t ask me much about him, though. I only saw him in a half-glance… and then I was on my way.