5.37 PM in Dukuh Atas BNI

5.37 PM in The Train Station is a sea of migrating salmon.

People are finding their way to return home. Holding on to themselves as the stream of waves is always challenging. And later, they can finally lie on their dead faint bed before swimming again tomorrow.

Somehow these packs of finless salmons are not going home home like the real salmons. In this torturous city, they can only cherry pick some bare minimums because decency becomes something unaffordable. Pick their poison, they say. You’ll be stronger, they say. On the way back, a pile of concerns will rise up on the back of their heads. Well, good for those salmon, they don’t need to think about all that.

Despite the difference, their migration will still lead to an end. No, they will not literally die after the migration. However, those pairs of eyes are feeling the death of their own souls. They started to forget why they are here. For some, maybe it’s family. For others, maybe it’s an escape. For me, it is both.

So when they say there’a plenty of fish in the sea, the salmon in this city are half-dead from inhaling pollutants, shady working hours, and greedy gaslighters. They leave their hometown to search for gold and glory in this exploiting city. At first, maybe they think they are racing for glory. No, they are competing for their own death.

As I am the water, I keep seeing them passing me by. Flapping their figurative tail to get to the top. Sucking up others to climb their metaphorical ladders. I let them pass. I allow them to pass me. I wish good things for the pure people. May their hurdles be easier.

5.37 PM in the train station, how many of them actually have the headspace to think about having an offspring? Are they willing to migrate further? Spread charms, hatch eggs. Chase hearts, spray potions. I doubt I would have the capacity even when they say I am ripe enough to reproduce. As the salmon keep rushing, I stop. Thinking: I’m nauseous.