Stationed between time

I am traveling on the second’s hand, going round and round, swaying between the black numbers, stagnant with tranquility of a still pond where the ripples leave the surface unperturbed, not leaving a mark. With each tock the hand moves causing a flurry but I am glued to that one spot, I am stationed between time.

From every thought I can take the next train traveling to another set of beliefs, conceptions, but I sit there, on a bench watching the early morning rays making an ugly mark on the dreamy velvety blues, jostling it from slumber, shattering yet another chimera.

Lifetimes pass by as another minute goes, and I am swallowed by the silence, its muteness devouring my soul making me numb, void. But I still sit there on that old rusted bench waiting for my life to come around, waiting to be swept in its emptiness. Not once does it occur to me that why not ride home in another rail of ideation, I am inconvincible, stuck to my ‘bench’.

And I loose my existence just in those few seconds as I refuse to ‘give in’, refuse to travel between it, I prefer to stay stationed between stations, stationed between time. My stubbornness reduces me to a mere mortal, a human that refuses to give in the laws of nature.

I become one of ‘us’, curled up away from reality, perched on that one ‘bench’ , with a hard bound book of scripted ideas, which never change, which never dissolve