I am staring out the window as I watch the landscape rush by; my mind displays familiar memories like a film projected onto a screen for everyone to see. Between moments, my eyes wander to the faces of the other passengers. Many of them are asleep. Their slouching bodies are held up by either the shoulder of a companion or the cold solitude of a frosted glass window. I wish I could be so lucky; my eyes are about as far from remaining shut as I am from being with you. It hasn’t always been this way, though. I can still remember a time when we were constantly together; inseparable—but now here I sit. I’m riding this old rickety train down the lonely tracks to the end of the line. I have never been to the end of the line before, but then again, who has?

I quite enjoy the solitude, though. It is a very calming feeling to be surrounded by people, yet left completely to my own thoughts. I have spent most of my life in this way. I bump into people I know, or should know, have a brief conversation (How’s the family? Where do you work now? Do you follow politics?) and walk away absolutely unaffected. It really doesn’t mean that much to me anymore; interaction is for people who care. I no longer care.

That doesn’t come as much of a surprise, though. It makes it hard to care when there is nobody to care for me in return. It just isn’t worth the trouble anymore. Although, I suppose that there might be someone, somewhere. With so many people in the world, there has to be somebody, right? It has become pretty pathetic trying to convince myself of something that has such a small chance of actually producing results. It’s useless.

I’m trying to reason with myself here. I’m trying to shed a little light on the darkness in my mind. If I can only convince myself that I’m not infinitely alone, then I know I’ll be fine. That isn’t even the hard part, though; I can believe anything I want. If I say it’s true then what is keeping me from actually implanting it in my mind and believing it? The hard part will be getting off the train in four stops and accepting what I have done. It’s too late to turn back now. Stepping onto this train is a declaration. It is a conscious and irreversible decision. The only choice that remains for me is whether or not I am able to accept what I have done. If I can, then maybe I can stop fighting with myself and just enjoy the ride. The bumps and turns attempt to dislodge the calmness from within me. I can’t give into them so easily, though.

Thinking back, I realize that I haven’t always been the most accommodating person to myself or others. Even if people aren’t always pleasant to me, shouldn’t I find it inside myself to show some compassion and care for them? Of course I am thinking about this now, when there is nothing I can do to change anything. There is no way to go but forward.

Many artists feel like they have to go through some struggle or personal disaster in order to make their work contain that ever important “Meaning.” Perhaps I have taken that idea a bit too far.

Three stops to go.

I don’t regret it, though. In fact, it is exactly what I have always wanted. A perfect ending to a series of serious imperfections. It’s all for the greater good. I’ve done it for all those poor, pathetic people I haven’t touched, for all the conversations I haven’t felt the need to engage in. Looking back, I can laugh at it. It is such a marvelous thing.

I want to just stare out the window and let it all disappear. I want to enjoy the ride. I want to close my eyes and take the perfect nap right now. I want to get up and run far away. I don’t know what I want.

Two stops.

The train is getting faster now. I wish it would just slow down. People are beginning to wake up. The train car has started to become uncomfortable; the air is getting thicker. Everyone looks so scared. I’ve had all this time to think about everything, but they have been sleeping; all the thoughts I’ve been contemplating are coming to them all at once. I feel sympathy for them. This is the first time I’ve felt sympathy, and since I know I’m in the same position as they are, I pity myself. I pity my sad, pathetic, waste of a life. The clock is getting louder. I can hear the seconds ticking past, floating off to wherever the forgotten time goes. I always wondered what this moment would be like.

The station blurs past and now there is just one more stop left. The end of the line isn’t far away. In my mind I am reliving the last moments of my life. I wish I could take it back. It is such a pathetic way to end it, and as we pull into the final station, the doors slide open and the infinite heat of hell pours through the open space. The windows shatter and everything goes black, except for a single, distant light that flickers like a lonely candle in an empty room. As it goes out, I feel everything soak out of my body, and I know there is nothing more.