“The train wheels’ chorus”, that’s how I prefer to call the chase of long late nights. When tired, I would support my shoulder on the open door of the car, waiting to arrive at my station. When all that’s left is the road… you become a real artist.
I didn’t know where I was heading, as I often don’t know.
Every chase has its essence. Sleeplessness transforms into free horses that jump over bridges, into barbaric images that stalk you through the fields, up until the train enters the tunnels. And then the cold grabs your already weakened body. It ruffles your depths and, independently of your will. Some tears slide across your cheek, separating in the violent blow of the wind.
During that moment, I don’t await the light. Instead, I remain a captive of the tunnel and wear them on my retina for kilometers on end.
Until when, from a distance, the lamps of a human settlement tear me away from myself. And I rejoin the train, near the car door, now – wide open, one foot flung forward, hitting the branches, and pain becoming the most enjoyable suffering, one for which no treatment exists.
“Close that door, you shouldn’t be staying there while the train’s moving!”
Someone shouts at me from behind, while an arm pulls me back. “Were you having a smoke?” They wouldn’t comprehend how important is the observation of passing through places, places that only travellers who awake for just a few seconds can lay their eyes upon. However, once, after I had already become the pathetic passenger, hitched to the railroads, I was told that what I do is not admirable. When all you have left is the road, things start to get interesting.
I had entered the group few enter, the ones who lose their sense of passage of time, in an absolutely absurd madness.
There was a moment one early morning, while standing on the car stairs, between Miercurea Ciuc and Brașov, when I wasn’t pulled out of there. There were some words shouted at me that would end up putting me more on the roads: “Ionuț! I see you more than my colleagues!”
Sometimes, the torment of being alone is insufferable.
You wake up laying on the floor near the door, a handful of people waiting on you to get out of the way, so they can exit the train. Other times, when you have your own seat, you can’t fall asleep, you know you’re passing by hundreds of thousands of people that you love without knowing. But, in general, after over 30 hours of switching trains and travelling, loneliness breaks you. Your arms beg for the being that you love and you can’t leave unembraced, the one whose shoulders you caress, and whose forehead you kiss.
And it doesn’t happen.
So you continue running from one station to the next. You hop on hundreds of trains, not knowing their destination, but knowing that there is a station that awaits you. You feel there’s a human somewhere prepared to fully cloak you. A human who can lose you between his ribs, who can imprison you in his utopian world that you just entered.