Waiting

I sat with my hands on my lap, waiting for the train. The station was dark and damp. My still wet eyelashes fluttered. The drops that fell into my eyes were tiny, so gentle they could almost be the beginning of tears. I looked down at the book I was holding. The paper was also wet. I sighed, squinting, as I tried to make out the shape of a blotted word. I set my book down, wrapped my arms around my shoulders, and started to shake. It was June. The cold was ephemeral; the superficial kind that makes you shiver ostentatiously, then passes like a fever dream. Reminding myself that the sun would soon return, I tried to concentrate on my book. But every few moments I would look up, marking my place with an eager, ever-shifting figer. I was afraid I would let the dreary silence obscure the sound of an arriving train. After a couple of minuets, I finally relented and checked my watch. The train was late.  

I surrendered, throwing my book into my bag. Sometimes mindless waiting was better, more honest, then the incessant progress of a story. Staring into the endless abyss of an empty train station was all consuming. 

Even quiet, everyday depression can be done passionately. But for that, you must leave your book behind and the let the leftover rain drip slowly into your eyes.