It’s one of those nights.#
It’s past midnight, and I’m sitting on a train, watching the city slip by in flickering lights and blurred reflections.
I let my mind wander.
What does a train have to do with life?#
I imagine a train—not just any train, but one that moves in a perfect loop. A train with no first station, no final destination. It just keeps circling the city, endlessly. You step on somewhere—anywhere—but the exact point doesn’t really matter.
As I sit here, I watch people board and leave at different stops.
They come in, take a seat, stand by the doors. Some glance at their phones, some stare out the window, lost in thought. Then, eventually, they step off, disappearing into the night.
And isn’t that just like life?
People enter your life. They share a moment, a day, maybe years.
Then, one day, they leave. You don’t always know when or why.
They just step off at their station, and the train moves on.
But here’s the thing—when you board a train, you rarely know when you’ll get off.
You just ride until it feels right. Until you’ve reached where you need to be.
Some people try to change the train while they’re on it.
They adjust the seats, improve the air circulation, make small changes.
Others do nothing. They just ride until it’s time to leave.
Some are lucky enough to find a seat right away—they arrived at the right time.
They claim they worked hard for it, that they knew how to find it.
Others board when the train is full.
They’re left standing, unless someone offers them a seat.
Most passengers just stand, squeezed between strangers, moving with the rhythm of the train.
But does it really matter?
- Does it matter if you sit or stand when, in the end, you leave the train anyway?
- Does it matter if you live as a rich man or die with nothing?
At the end of the journey, aren’t we all stepping off without taking anything with us?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Because once they step off, the train keeps moving.
And soon, their presence is just a memory—
Sometimes forgotten,
Sometimes lingering in the echoes of the journey.
The train moves forward, but not really—it’s just going in circles.
It has no start. No end. Just like the universe. Just like time.
The further you ride, eventually you come back to the same place.
It was always there. Just one big loop.
It’s going so fast, you don’t even realize how time passed—
how people changed, departed, and entered.
It reminds me of a book I read: One Hundred Years of Solitude.
In a hundred years, everything repeats.
The people. Their passions. Their mistakes.
That’s the beauty of history.
When I was a kid, I thought history was just the past—
something over, not worth learning.
Until I realized: history is the mirror of the future.
Sure, technology is advancing. Governments are changing.
There are no more kings or slaves—at least by name.
Wait. You think there aren’t?
What about people who work all day just to earn a bite of bread?
While others live the best life, untouched?
We change the names of things.
But we follow the same trajectory.
Making the same mistakes.
Just like a loop.
Some people keep looking back at the stations they’ve passed.
They miss the old stops. They live in the past.
But it brings nothing but sorrow.
Others are worried about where they’re going.
They cling to the idea of a better future.
Hope keeps them on the track.
But how many of us are truly living in the moment?
How many stop to appreciate the now?
The trees, the mountains, the lakes.
The quiet things we rarely notice or appreciate.
Our constant thoughts cloud the beauty around us—
Regret, missed opportunities, anxiety about a future we’re not even sure we’ll reach.
We are so hopeful we’ll make it to the next station.
But maybe that hope is what keeps us alive.
No one stays on the train forever.
Even I will have to leave one day.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But someday, the doors will open, and I will know—it’s time.
And when I do, the train will keep moving.
New people will take my seat.
I’ll live in some memories. But not for long.
True death comes when you vanish from the memory of the last person who knew you.
And maybe that’s the best we can hope for.
The worst?
To go unknown while you’re still alive.
To live in the dark corners of the train.
To never even glance at the light—nor try to.
Some people leave a brief but vivid mark.
Others are already dead in spirit, their presence no longer felt.
But the city will remain.
The lights will keep flickering.
And the loop will go on.
But maybe—just maybe—
I’ll hop on again.
In another time, in another way.
Until then,
I ride.