Your Station in Life

Connie Burgos

October 1, 2007

Your station in life – is a standing. The stations announce arrivals and departures; both incidents occur side by side and by coincidence. The meaning is representational. Preceding something other, it calls out a memory, a home, a sweetness that is conditional on all things – day, time and month are all indicators of duration, all durable. In my attempt at arrival I anticipate departure. By giving direction I’m giving in to it. The train passes through other people’s homes – any one of them could be mine, I’ve lived in all of them at one time or another. I’ve lived in them for moments sliced so thin I think I saw myself on the other side. Recognition is emerging and forms are taking shape. Shadows are extracted and clear – pure and simple. The edges sharp and hard edged. When I’m able to discern a letter or two – perhaps even a word, I know I’ll soon be arriving at my station. It isn’t like the others – there are vast symbolic differences, even the screech of brake pads has a unique ring to it. Funny how the train’s slowing has no relation with my own slowing down. The arrival doesn’t belong to me, but its immediacy is so thick that it’s intimate – I’ve fallen in love with it and swallowed it up whole. How can a three bedroom house fit inside my mouth? The thought seems disproportionate, but something has shrunk – is shrinking still, and by comparison I have grown, outgrown by yards the station gates.

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