Sometimes you’re on the train. You see the world past by, and you watch yourself being reflected on the windows. You move around, and you travel, and things get done and you’re the done making them. You learn, and you grow, and even sometimes, you get some rest. But not often. You tend to be always on the run.

Some other times, though, you wait in the station.

You watch every train arrive, and every carriage portraying possibilities and ideas, some looking more enticing than the others.

Sometimes you take those trains, and you go on a new adventure, you meet people, and you go on learning and studying and feeling quite unprepared for those new challenges that keep cropping out.

But then, yes, there’s a time when no coming train sparks your interest. They all show you great destinations, and you appreciate you’ve been given such a privilege and even the chance to be there, sitting, weighing options—and yet you don’t board them. They’re right and good, but not quite right, and not quite good. Not for you at least. Not anymore.

Instead, you sit, and you wait.

You think about everything you’ve done so far. The projects. The challenges. The adventures. You remember all those victories, but you also cherish the wrong-turns and those moments where you erred, and you chose wrong. You recall the mistakes, but also the stories. The awards. The moments where you thought you couldn’t do more, and then the right carriage arrived and you went in and did it. And even more after that.

You start to think about what would possibly come next. What would be the next stop? Where should you go to do what you do? What would be that next station?

Sometimes things change, and life changes, and you have to unwillingly choose the coming train—any really—and just move on. But this doesn’t seem to be one of those sorts of times. You start to think maybe you’ve gone as far as you wished. You’ve visited all those destinations you wanted to go when, once upon a time, you set forth with an idea and a dream. And it’s scary, for what’s next when you’ve achieved those dreams, and you’ve fulfilled your ideas?

People come and go, and you start watching them. They go on their journeys and you can see the delight on their faces. And the fear. You see them standing where you stood once, with all those hopes and all those dreams, and you envy them.

If you’re lucky, and you paid attention, that’s the moment you start to get the picture and you start to realize maybe there is more than one track. That perhaps you have gone as far as you could on this one—and quite a ride has it been! You commence thinking that maybe, perhaps, there’re different paths to move forward.
Maybe there’re different ways.

Perhaps that’s how life is meant to be lived: by going forward, staying afloat as much as we can, as far as we are able; and then, by switching lanes and starting over. But not quite. You’re not as young, nor as naive. Not really. Or not quite, you prefer to think.

And thus, all those paths you could have taken back then begin to unveil themselves. All those ideas you never pursued, those letters that went unwritten, and the tales that laid untold. And so you stand, and you walk, and you travel, going through the unknown, for no map can actually point you to your next station. But you travel with hope, and that amounts to something.

You walk. You wander. It takes a while. Maybe a year. Maybe more. But you keep going. Listening. Waiting. Till the moment you hear a new train arriving, and when it does, and it will, you walk towards it. You’ll see how new it looks. How shiny. How everything inside just makes sense, and all its destinations ring true. When that happens, you’ll know you’ve arrived at your new station. You’ll breathe, and you’ll look behind, one last time, feeling when expectation meets with fears.

Eventually, though, you’ll step in, and you’ll happily board it and your journey will resume. Just like before. And completely anew.