by Péter Szabó

Here I am again. Finally. The door creakingly opens and I feel like I am home. My steps are squeaking through the room when I’m about to take my place. I hear loud chat from above and below. The sight is calming. The old floor tile mesmerizes the eyes of the tired through passengers. Although the floor is made of cold stone, the stair’s bourdon color feels warm. The atmosphere of the place is quite nostalgic. You can feel the old times in the vibrating neon lights.

When I look back to the corridor through the door’s window and see the crowd, people running, I feel the difference. This place is like an inner shelter and this wooden door is the gate between the two worlds.

I unintentionally touch the window frame and feel the dust. This tiny desert of dirt just increases the feeling of the past.

This dirty scent mixtured in the air with some familiar burnt smell. One big breath causes a microscopic snowstorm for a second. This inspiration makes me open my small leather box. I take out one of my well-prepared five-minute breaks.

It taste like sticks, well burnt, not so salty or not salty at all. My mood changes the flavour of it sometimes. Even the beverage I chose can manipulate my senses. Mineral water brings out the real flavour but with coffee it’s sometimes sweet.

I like this place. The place without hierarchy. Where everybody is equal for at least a few minutes.

(2009)