transi[s][t]station

and again silence, sticky, oily and choking




it’s 5 in the afternoon, it’s hot and melting; the colours have all but disappeared in the shimmering waves above the hot tracks, and the sky is burned to white. I light the first cigarette of the day – I drank too much the previous night, and the morning hours crawled bitter tasting – the smoke and intense smell hover briefly around me, nausea grips my head. but they soon vanish in the smell of sun-dried piss and rancid canteen food. a large gypsy family arrives and briefly enlivens the dead platform with its bright layered skirts and barefoot kids with over-sized shirts. after a short quarrel over cigarettes, they soon fall into apathy, squatting behind the large concrete poles, and only flies zoom around crazed by the smells and the heat. the train station speaker stutters, and the announcement passes unnoticed together with the express train to Bucharest. second cigarette. I take a picture of the old refinery behind the station, taking short comfort in the muffled click-click of my Praktica’s shutter sound. I unglue the t-shirt off my back, staring at the paint peeling of the walls. I’m so distressed and groggy I feel like screaming. an old drunk man staggers through the doors belching swear words, and a wave of pitiless disgust ripples through the station. another express train shoots through on line 1, raising dirty wrappings in the air and blazing us with smell of sweat and dirty seats. and again silence, sticky, oily and choking.

I’ve been home after 4 years, and I cant wait to leave