THE CONSTRUCT: In The End

PART ONE

Neon rain falls on my face, can't escape this endless plain. Try to fight but time just bends, every dream just bends again. Walking alone through a silver haze. The city hums, the past remains. Static is louder every day. Echoes of your name. shadow still calls my name. echoes just fade away.

We are all living within one construct or another, travelling along a train from one point to another, the sooner we accept this the more straight forward it all will be. Curiosity and action don't allow for much to travel in a straightforward manner. The word TRAIN too, can be that of a mode of transport, or that of the ability to instruct or to teach. And a conductor would be someone who moves things along as much as it also could be a material or device that conducts or transmits heat or electricity ...

CONSTUCT; -

To build or make something ... typically a building, road, or machine.

To form an idea or theory, by bringing together various conceptual elements.

An idea or theory containing various conceptual elements, typically one considered to be subjective and not based on empirical evidence.

History is largely an ideological construct.

VIRTUAL; -

Almost or nearly as described, but not completely or according to strict definition, ... the virtual absence of border controls.

Not physically existing as such but made by software to appear to do so.

Relating to the points of which rays would meet if produced backwards.

REALITY; -

The state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional of them.

A thing that is experienced or seen, especially when this is unpleasant.

The state or quality of having existence or substance.

Time is a precious thing; watch it slip by as the pendulum swings ...

There's a certain wisdom hidden in the silence, and sometimes, that absence of words speaks louder than any elaborate speech. Choosing when to express yourself or when to remain quiet is an art in itself ... shaped by moments and the people around you. Life's subtle dance between saying too much and not enough often leaves us pondering the real impact of our words ... or the lack thereof.

In a darkened corner of an average sized flat, something not at all so average is taking place, it has been in the works for more than a while. In the otherwise moment of quiet, the sparks of electricity sizzle and pop. An overload has thrown him into a corner. Unconsciousness and the dream of what his life could be close in.

***

Dread, a horrid sinking feeling, everything condensing. A need for action too important to allow time to continue on as if there are no issues of note at play. Something has begun, haste made when preparations are not one hundred percent complete. Still, pressure imploding, constraining each and every breath. An entry into or exit from a dream. An instant transition untried, untested beyond the basics.

Then a crescendo is reached, and an immediate pressure is expelled, and a moment is needed to regain a proper breathing pattern. It's being born fully formed untraditionally breaking away from one existence, while moving into another taking as much from before along for the ride.

Going headfirst so suddenly into not quite an unknown before all the creases are ironed out ... well, something will ultimately be left behind. This is only a first step. A pressure to act is still in place but ... but ... but.

He wakes in a relatively large room with a start and suddenness the likes of which seem somewhat ... unnatural ... not unlike that of coming alive for a first time ... indeed being born into existence fully formed and ready to go, except he is not ready to go. But he needs to be. Something is not right, something is ... missing.

This room is indeed large and unfamiliar, a possible public space of sorts, some sort of waiting room it would appear with an aesthetic of a time long since passed. How did he get here? He does not quite know though feels as if he should. There is a need for action, what kind of action for the moment is something beyond him.

He has come here to do something, but what. There was something all too hurried. The how and why are also a little beyond him, for the moment at least. A loud whistle sounds from outside, a possible train whistle perhaps. Certainly, seems as if it is.

This waiting room ... is one at a train station? Yes ... he believes it is for something has come to him though it is still out of reach. There is a hatch area at the far end of the room, a ticket hatch with an open door just before it ... an exit to the outside. Train tracks must be just beyond it.

The station itself lost in nineteenth-century grandeur ... a wide, vaulted concourse lined with ornate ironwork arching overhead, catching the wavering glow of gas lamps suspended from the rafters. Easy to imagine the polished marble floors echoing with the footsteps of gentlemen in top hats and ladies swathed in layers of velvet and lace though in this moment all is quiet for the most part, other than the sounds of the impending train arrival.

Wooden benches, their surfaces worn smooth over time by countless waiting travellers, sitting beneath tall windows glazed with stained glass, casting colourful shadows across the bustling hall. Porters in crisp uniforms hurry past, wheeling trunk-laden trolleys toward the tracks, while the sharp scent of coal smoke drifts in from the engines outside.

Announcements, polite yet firm, ring out from a brass megaphone mounted above the ticket booth, whose gilded grille and hand-painted sign exude a quiet, dignified authority. Every detail ... down to the ticking of the station clock and the gentle rustle of newspapers ... hums with the energy and anticipation of journeys soon to begin.

If it weren't for the fact that he currently exists here, believing that this moment is real as the place itself must be, then it could easily be thought of as somehow artificial, built to serve a purpose but there is no time to dwell on that as an announcement does come through those mounted megaphones announcing the arrival of that impending train.

Outside the ground is a mix match of red and grey brick work. A nearby sign clearly states that this is PLATFORM 4. A classic steam train is slowly but surely approach from a little way down the line, smoke bellowing from the chimney with No.4 displayed on that stack. The air is fresh with a slight crisp chill floating on the soft breeze, tinted by the smoke wafting down along the line. And without a care in the world, for as far as he can assume, it feels good to be ... alive.

There is a certain joy as to if all this is his, a result of action rather than being in this moment by chance. There is something else, something seemingly trying to come to him, some sense of urgency. Why this should be so, again is unknown, as so much else is.

He is a little lost in this moment though one thing he feels necessary is that he should be on this train or at least be boarding it. The beige suit, white shirt, the overcoat draped over his left arm and the fedora on his head ... all feel somehow wrong. Clothing that feels foreign to his body. In the moment that is, there is no time to dwell on the oddness of the situation, a train needs boarding. And as it would appear, he is in possession of a valid ticket.