I was stooping, trying to see the fine etch at the bottom of the metallic metro door panel. Nothing was making any sense. The train jolted to a start like a dead man on a defibrillator. The random mark left by a million treading boots suddenly fell in place, danced like a pixie and flooded me with an understanding akin to ones mother tongue. As I stared, my eyes concentrated all their might on the sign, got tired, started itching and finally welled up with fatigue. They were not accustomed to look for so much clarity anymore.
I stood up, with sheathed viciousness, dug my heels into the mark. Armed with branded army shoes, I heaved and pressed my feet trying to add deforming dimensions to the pattern. I tried for an eternity. Then I put my thumb across the deformed emblem and in a swift flow made sure that the smoothness was gone.
A drop of blood left my thumb. It flew past my swaying muffler end in a perfect dive and made an amoeba shaped splatter on the cold floor. The jutting edges grinned, as my train neighbors looked at me in a way they would ridicule a lunatic and his antiques. I felt at peace. On my stroll back from the station I chanced upon the dark corner which the mark was hiding. That regalia if I might call it, reminded me how much it hurts to let go.
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