A Soul's Train

A soul's train always stops for death. Carriages were used before trains, and walking, and or running, was the only mode for a soul before such wagons, although a horse or an ass could have been readily available for such a voyage. Are there soul planes nowadays, with their own control towers and airports? Luggage carousels and claims are surely not required, pilots and flight attendants must be dead or dreaming, and security must be lax.

To take this train purposefully is practically impossible. Even the Spanish train that raced between the long Guadalquivir and senior Seville does not anymore, as far as I know. Yet, I found myself waking up on such a train, oblivious as to how I got there, and failing to remember having bought a ticket. I looked around me and through the windows, unable to see anyone or anything else. The train was steadily speeding along its rural route.

"The train must stop at some point," I kept repeating to myself and perhaps anyone listening, who, of course, had to be invisible. There were too many unknowns to consider, even the veracity of actually being on what felt like a runaway train. I made sure, a few times, that it was not a dream, although there was no guarantee, nonetheless, that it was reality. I decided to walk along the length of the train, but I was locked in my car, with no way out.

"Why am I imprisoned on a train all alone?" I asked aloud. Perhaps it is a train of thought, or a train of consciousness losing its grip. "Am I dead in some esoteric sense?" I could think about too many things and remember myriad others, and thus I had to be alive. Death is the absence of any thought and thus, consciousness. "Where is the train heading to?" Hell or Heaven if I am a soul. "A soul?" I almost shouted. "Give me a break!"

I did not feel any hunger or thirst, but I wanted some water, preferably purified, not from any tap. I swept the car again in every way possible in case I had missed something. Everything felt solid or cushioned. I blew some air from my mouth to make sure that air was also present. If I could pee or sneeze, I would also be able to establish the existence of liquid. I did not need to do any of the two. Perhaps it was time to cry with real tears.

I had not cried since my wife's death in 2014. I never found a worse reason, but there were some egocentric tears. Terminal cancer is worse than death, yet most people are more afraid of death, the inevitable, the perfect price, presumably, for awareness. Even suffering is subjective, and pain has its own arena of anxieties and anguishes. The soul? What is it good for? The body dies and the soul grows, up, I suppose, or down. No one really knows.

I never liked trains or planes—I always liked bicycles—and cars I find to be best for short purposeful drives. Why am I on a train? I guess that it is less scary than a plane. A bicycle or a car would have been too limiting. This is not a train, I reasoned. Looks can be deceiving, after all. I already showed, at least to myself, that this was not a dream. It must be a small programme, then. I may be a glitch, or stuck in a loop of some sort. Who is running it?

I seem to be alone on a runaway train. Where is it running to? Perhaps Spain, or it may be the last train to London or Clarksville. It is surely not a peace train, love train or party train, since I seem to be alone. It is not a midnight train to Georgia or Memphis either. It may be a morning train and or a train of consequences. It is a mystery train. Yet, such a train involving what appears to be only myself, can also be a trivial train.

Where is my body? Does it really matter at this stage? Some part of me seems to be travelling on an accelerating train. I can barely see outside the car. Do I have any senses left? I wish I could touch her face or her right breast. This tour would have been more bearable with Anthi by my side. Her smile would have clarified some of the obscurity. Holding her hands would have given this tale more spirit. I wonder where she is right now.