The Crossing

I stood at the tunnel where the light changes. Actually I was waiting for someone who wasn't coming.

The concrete sweats in December. I know this. The dripping is not rain. I know this too. What I don't know is what's on the other side. They said: the other side is the same tunnel. They said it like that would help.

My father walked through a tunnel like this one. Not this one. A worse one. The kind with a train and a loud whistle that means get out or don't.

He didn't. He crossed. That's the story. No - he crawled. The standing came after.

I'm standing. The light on this side is fluorescent and hums at a frequency that makes your teeth itch. The light on the other side is nothing I can name. Not dark. Not light. The absence of opinion.

A woman passes me going the other direction. She doesn't look at me. She's already through. Her coat is wet on the wrong side. The side that should be dry. The side that faces the rain that isn't falling in here.

I put my hand on the wall. The concrete is warm. It shouldn't be. It's December and the tunnel is unheated and the wall is warm like a body that's just left a bed. Like a body. Like.

The sign above the exit says EXIT. The sign above the entrance says nothing. That's not true. It says something I can't read because the paint is the colour of the wall.

I take one step. The light changes. Actually I take one step and the light has already changed. I'm late for the change. I'm always late for the change. My father was late for the train and it worked out.

I step through. The other side is a tunnel. They were right. They were right and it doesn't help.

30.08.2026