[ OT ] Sunday Free Write : Leave A Story , Leave A Comment - The Dark Gift Edition !

**The Express Nocturno** 
 
 He knew there was something curious going on when he fell asleep every day. If he wasn ’ t too tired, he would take around ten minutes to drift off. Usually this was the case. On some occasions, he retained a degree of self-awareness as his mental processes slowed down before descending gracefully into his seat on the Express Nocturno. On other occasions, the self-awareness became too much, and he would catch himself gently beginning to snore and promptly fall out of sync with the internal calming forces. An irritating game of touch and go later, he would find himself looking after the back of the Express as it pulled out of the platform. Cursing, he would write a memo to his system administrator and stick it on the wall, but he wouldn ’ t realize until he woke up the next day that there was no way those memos would ever reach their intended recipient. The entire process was like the mechano-intuitive way of starting an automobile with gears - the clutch-accelerator dynamic that determined whether the vehicle would start, or ineffectually sputter out with a violent shudder. 
 
 When the gears locked and everything fell into place, a fragrant breeze would swathe him and carry him to the outer banks of the mighty Transcendental Current. Wafting on the wind, he would wriggle this way and that in slumber, and the good gust would have a hard time nudging him over the shore while taking care to see that it itself didn ’ t fall off as well - it was only a low ranked, career-driven wind minion, after all. Every time he managed to get himself afloat on the outer reaches of the swirling Current, the minion ’ s future got just a little brighter. 
 The Current was rather a very naughty and turbulent rush of what was understood very poorly as consciousness. It was very poorly understood indeed, because of an inherent property of the neighbourhood which ensured an absolute secrecy with respect to every event that took place there and every single element that made up the place. This meant that visitors, casual or permanent, never remembered anything about their trip whatsoever. It was like an encashed lottery ticket to Las Vegas, but the censor of total oblivion a million times more deadly and serious. The Current slowly picked up speed and scavenged upon the debris and knick-knacks on its banks. Eventually, it grabbed all the hitchikers, homeless guys, tourists, destitutes and saints who bobbed up and down on the tides of the outer reaches and bore them onward sluggishly, but firmly. It swelled and became quite unruly till finally, the gas pedal got floored, plunging all of them headlong into a blood-curdling, nightmarish bottomless pit that was a black hole twenty miles dia in the middle of the ocean. Of course, none of the passengers perceived a damn thing, because of the transit rule, which was actually only a corollary of the One rule. 
 
 The term ‘ state of mind ’ lost all meaning at this point, because there no longer existed any clear demarcations between the landscape, the current, the mind, and countless other individual minds. Psychoanalysts and pyschopaths, ruler and subject, friend and foe alike, all lost their bearings while they dropped like stones into the pit, cushioned in figure-hugging protective pods. Not that they had the slightest clue before as to where they were going, or even had the faintest sensation of movement, change of direction or passage of time. In his moments of wakefulness, he imagined the landscape and neighbourhood to be painted in the most subtle of blue shades. He couldn ’ t explain this freakish idea, nor did he have any method to validate this hypothesis. 
 
 The many millions of pods would rain on the platform, bouncing once or twice on the rubbery ground that sent ripples all around each time. When viewed from above, the platform would seem to be the most tranquil and virgin of water surfaces during rain. On the ground, however, pods would rupture and yield their respective passengers. He normally heard the'pop ’ of the explosion, instantly forgetting he had ever done so. He would stand up and take stock of the situation, deliberately stepping around pods that hadn ’ t exploded yet and look around for a vacant spot to sit out the mandatory rest period. The Express Nocturno would sweep in majestically at the right time, and all the passengers would stare in wonder and awe, hypnotized. It would come to a well-executed stop, much like an aircraft landing and rein itself in with a hiss and release of steam from both sides. What was curious about the platform was that there wasn ’ t a rail in sight anywhere. The Express would simply sail in and settle down in practically any position that was feasible at the moment. The scientists and railfans would flock together in separate herds and marvel at as much of its technical aspects as was apparent. Then the roof of the Express would vaporize, exposing the seats inside to the platform. The exploded pods would then find their respective passengers and escort them upwards, lulling them into a very alpha sort of state and deposit them onto the seats with much love and tenderness. A gong would be sounded in the distance, and the echoes would ring out maddeningly. This was the signal. A light drizzle of latecomers would decorate the platform just as the Express was leaving, who would then proceed to curse and stick memos onto the walls. 
 
 Passengers would disembark at various stops along the way, but he never felt inclined to leave the pleasant and enriching atmosphere he was ensconced in. Images, of people dead, people alive, life events, dreams, spectacular failures and muted victories were the ingredients of the cocktails that were served onboard the Express. He would partake of them with gay abandon and great enthusiasm. Sometimes he would mix his drink himself. But most of the time, he rooted himself in suspended animation and just let go completely. On such occasions, the roof would dissolve right on top of his head and a shower of astral dust would glitter down on him. It would then occur to him that he was being handed a pen by an invisible hand. A most joyous sensation would then manifest itself and elevate him to great towers of delight. These didn ’ t occur very often. 
 Nobody would come to know when the journey was at its end. Some dull and vague calls would come across from afar, and the inky darkness would be illuminated by an infinitesimal amount of yellow light. An inner mechanism would be stirred into action, and the first reduction of gears would take place. The journey would terminate at different points for different people, and in very different ways. For him, though, the yellow light would be followed by a most depressing voice drawn out in temporal distortion, and he would know immediately. For him, the Express would bank to the left ( or the right ) sharply, stepping off the main highway and beginning the long journey'back home ’. The rest was a very infuriating sequence of events so chaotic and so completely out of his control that he would frequently be launched right across the platform and upwards into the Current. The force would be sufficient for him to punch right through the massive stream and reach the other side. 
 
 He didn ’ t mind the rude wake-up calls a bit. It was the breakfasts and the utter incompetence shown in their preparation that would cause him to snap out of his languor with a touch of petulance and an intense dislike of humanity in general.
