Platform Number Three

Colors, I see colors and textures around me. The scent of the hot wires and every spark that tames the perpetual falling and forever running metro. There are people, all sorts of people, eagerly waiting, clearly losing their patience and people, standing so still in their own melancholy of mind. The odor, oh, the odor mixed with the array of perfumes. People chattering, some loud, some discreet. Those glooming, little eyes. Waiting to see the choo choo and hopping on it. Them running around the station as if no one is watching. The rush and chaos, the horn of the metro brings. The pulling, pushing, rubbing of the passengers to get in this one train. Finally inside, searching for the empty seats for there are none. Even when standing, the odor follows. People peeking into your phones and overhearing your conversations. The chaos subsides, as the horn goes again, signaling the departing of the train. The platform No. 3, standing there, still, lifeless, waiting for the next set of passengers, to feel again what it's been feeling for all these years, not murmuring, never murmuring.