Tasteless. Leathery. Overstayed. Ataxic.

You’ve done what you needed to do. Now perhaps it is time to move on.

The train ride was eventful and pure, filled with dreams and aspirations and satiety. But now you’ve passed your stop 10 times and the tracks just keep getting rougher and rougher.

Most people never have to get off this train called life, but sometimes seats need to vacate. Someone has to pay for a transaction that was never made. Someone needs to be accountable for a crime never committed. Someone needs to go.

I’d say I wish I’d have volunteered to go, but I’ve already been chosen. Such a comment is robbed from its chivalry. It is just a job that needs to be done.

Soon, my stop will come, and there will be no consolidation. No mourning. No mural in the galleries of hearts. Just a routine happening. A relief, even. Or complete catharsis to the world.

I could cleanse the world of me. A small nova of iridescence and a vacuum. There would be one less plate to set. One less seat to reserve. One less salary to pay. One less petrified heart to bear. One less voice in a melange of billions. Not even an echo.

Two more stops before it’s mine. Admire the view across a pristine window – so transparent you’d be convinced it was immaterial. But you can’t touch the flowers, feel the wind or taste the rain. You can only sweat from an unbearable sun.

You have been to this stop before. There is no platform. No number. Not even an announcement. All you see is your feet facing down an abyss. An oblivion. No sea to save you. No flora to admire. No birds to sing. Just a dry cataclysm and many other lifeless, eviscerated bodies. Emasciated. Longing.

Soon, perhaps, you may add to this collection. Not even a sadist bothers to look down.

Doors open. Not even greeted on this coach. Don’t expect a farewell. Don’t expect appreciation.

Expect, instead, of relief. Expect a few smiles unseen. Expect a cloud of melancholy to fall with you.

Pulverized bones. Punctured pupils. Arms swinging back like a damaged figurine. All accompanied by a satisfying crunch.

And you will, too, become a speck in an abyssal canyon of rejection.