Question

Stream of consciousness is a literary technique in which the narrator's thoughts flow like an internal monologue. This allows readers to see the inner thoughts of the narrator.

Look at the photo above and consider the scene. Write a paragraph using the stream of consciousness technique to describe your thoughts and what you see as you venture through the scene.

Ask yourself:

What do you see?

How do you feel?

What brought you to this scene?

Does it bring back any memories?

Write at least 200 words.

Remember: stream of consciousness writing is different from a typical narrative. It may be disjointed and jump around because that's what our thoughts do.

Answer 1

I step off the cracked platform and the boards answer with a hollow sigh, rain still clinging to the edges like tired enamel, and why am I here—because the letter said come, because the map was folded into a book I found under the bed, because I needed to see if the place remembered me when I could not; the station smells of oil and old newspapers and the ghost of coffee, a train whistle somewhere inside my ribcage that never leaves, rust blooming along the rails like stubborn flowers, weeds pushing up through concrete like teeth, sunlight slicing through clouds in thin yellow knives that make the puddles glitter and I think of shoes I wore when I was six, too big, soaked through, running after a kite that never came down, and the sound of footsteps—my footsteps—echo around the overhang and there is no one to answer, just the drip of water from the guttered roof and a pigeon that watches with one tired eye as if judging my decision to come, the benches are carved with names I half-remember, initials of other people's summer romances, a coin stuck to a seam, a child's scribble about dragons and rockets, someone left a suitcase, canvas faded to a pale regret, a sticker peeled to nothing, and my throat tightens because this was where I waited once, or thought I waited, waiting for someone who had promised a different life, I can taste the salt of old tears and the metallic tang of years, the tracks run straight into a horizon that looks like an eraser-smeared memory, I press my palm to cold metal, it's colder than I expected, like a hand reaching back from a parked history, and the world narrows to breath and the small sound of insects arguing in the grass, and I keep walking because who else will carry these spaces back into sense if not me, because leaving would mean letting the past fold into itself like a map no one reads, and behind each boarded window a room holds a whole summer I cannot step into again, but I keep walking anyway, listening for the rhythm that used to mean home.