Station of the Weary
Apr. 26th, 2004 08:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
woodfaceIt's not exactly fic, but it isn't really not a fic either.
As you enter Brussels North Station only the most observant soul will notice the guardian angel. It took me years but on a cloudy day, melancholy tearing within me, I saw it for the first time. On the street corner, on top of a blue cupola stood an angel. Dirt and smog had settled on him, the once white paint flaking from his wings uncovering dull grey patches. His open arms seemed to welcome the weary traveller into his safe haven, however rundown it was. I wondered why I never noticed it before and why I didn’t see it many times after I knew of his presence. I can only explain it by placing the angel in a hidden world which only opens for those whose mind is seeking for its safety. As if the tired arms of the angel would be able to support the most lost soul.
Until one day someone covered the inviting arms with black plastic and hid the haven even for those reaching out for it. Then this morning my train approached the station and although I wasn’t looking for it, I still saw the angel. He’s white again, his robe and wings reflecting the midday sun. My heart tripped at its magnificence but although all can see it now it has become unreachable. As if the layer of paint closed the station that the angel was guarding.
My mind travels to a future, years from now, when dirt has settled on his wings again, making them heavy. And I imagine a weary traveller looking out of the window and finding a ruined haven to repose in the arms of a tired angel.
As you enter Brussels North Station only the most observant soul will notice the guardian angel. It took me years but on a cloudy day, melancholy tearing within me, I saw it for the first time. On the street corner, on top of a blue cupola stood an angel. Dirt and smog had settled on him, the once white paint flaking from his wings uncovering dull grey patches. His open arms seemed to welcome the weary traveller into his safe haven, however rundown it was. I wondered why I never noticed it before and why I didn’t see it many times after I knew of his presence. I can only explain it by placing the angel in a hidden world which only opens for those whose mind is seeking for its safety. As if the tired arms of the angel would be able to support the most lost soul.
Until one day someone covered the inviting arms with black plastic and hid the haven even for those reaching out for it. Then this morning my train approached the station and although I wasn’t looking for it, I still saw the angel. He’s white again, his robe and wings reflecting the midday sun. My heart tripped at its magnificence but although all can see it now it has become unreachable. As if the layer of paint closed the station that the angel was guarding.
My mind travels to a future, years from now, when dirt has settled on his wings again, making them heavy. And I imagine a weary traveller looking out of the window and finding a ruined haven to repose in the arms of a tired angel.
