A Collapse In Slow Motion

• Samuel Woods, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2008

Time passes in distinctions; moments long lost of meaning through the constant detachment placed upon them. Seconds, minutes, hours. Routine dictated by a clock ten minutes fast. Actions, too, have become without meaning, without value or concept. Repetition defines the day. Half-awake with a song stuck in my head.
Watching people hurry by, in fluent and stuttering movements, on their way to save the day or record words on paper; proofs and denials. Some are leaving. The clock shows a certain time, and I join them.
On my way out, I pass by her; lost in a daydream. No point in saying goodbye then. Or hello. Head bowed in anticipation of the wind, I enter the darkening street, becoming another expressionless face in the crowd. Most on their way home. Some, perhaps, are seeking respite in the company of others, to plan futures and reminisce about pasts.
I reach the station as the sun disappears beneath the city line. Stand with others, waiting for a train expected to be delayed. (My mind skips from one isolated thought to another, more out of boredom than anything else.) After an unmeasured time, the train gradually winds its way into the station and waits patiently for the crowds to sort themselves into the departing and arriving. Those departing far outnumber those arriving, and so the carriage is packed full of people, waiting to get home, to return to familiarity, to possible sanctuary. The woman sitting next to me is reading a faded novel, engrossed in a time and place apart from this one; another kind of sanctuary. Close my eyes and try to doze off.
The carriage slowly empties at each stop, the somber silence occasionally broken by the turning of a page, a cough, or a sigh, becomes more still as time continues to give way to distance.
I leave my seat as familiar landmarks come into sight, stumble unsteadily to the door as the train comes to a somewhat shuddering stop. The woman remains completely focused on her novel, immune to the start and stop motion of the train. I step out into the platform and the train continues on its way, a progression both comforting and somehow forlorn.
Rain greets me as I make my way to a place temporarily labeled home. The occasional headlights of passing cars seem to acknowledge my presence briefly, before continuing down roads leading perpetually away from a loosely defined Here. I search my pockets for keys as I come to a squat, multi-storied building that only finds significance in memories and recognition. Take the steps to the second floor; enter a room with the promise of meaning and familiarity. Everything is as it always is, and so goes unnoticed. Too tired to eat, I lay my clothes on a chair, lie down on a bed long claimed as my own, close my eyes, and contemplate sleep.