The Story of the Train

Directly across from me, two women are talking about the hospital—one with a very high-pitched voice, while the other looks disinterestedly at her phone, nodding occasionally. The man behind them is clearly irritated and takes another sip of his kiosk coffee. Next to him, a woman is on the phone with her current client; she seems happy.

The train is a wellspring of inspiration. I can easily imagine writers on the train inventing the characters they seek—a quirky nose, a high voice, a full beard with bits of bread in it, a 16-year-old boy with too much gel in his hair, or someone with a distinctive scent. When you look closely at a person, you catch a glimpse of their life. Is it someone with children—perhaps in primary school or even in vocational school? Maybe the child, by accident, never got a swimming certificate, or is addicted to double vla. What might his friends be like? Someone with long hair, short hair, or no hair at all? A hat? Is he or she ill? Is it a chronic condition or does it pass quickly? What will the man do when he gets off the train—turn left or right? Or does he work at the station in the bistro? And with whom does he go home in the evening? Is it an old-fashioned or a modern house? Or is there even a house at all?

A page from the newspaper is turned—or at least, the traveler tries to turn it—and I am abruptly snapped out of my daydream. At times, I can completely immerse myself in something, but the reality of everyday life often pulls me back. That is the play of creativity: dare to dream.