The journey

So I took the train to enjoy the morning sun and watch the landscape whisk by. The prospect of a new day should be grasped with eager hands. Another day gifted with boundless possibilities to create, to learn, to love. 

For me, I have been remiss in writing my book, and even though I’m surrounded by the bustling commuters, there is a rare moment of stillness for me to write. And yet, I’m drawn to the blue cloudless sky and I can’t help wondering if it is same shade of blue that you stare into as you lie on the sun lounger and drink in the sun’s warm rays. 

Stations flash past and I look down and I haven’t contributed a single word to my book. There are no words, and sometimes there are things that don’t need to be said, and times when words can provide comfort and assurance. Assurance that your messages are long awaited, and I want to reach out but for the uncertainty of your activity and availability. And comfort that you are never alone even when you find yourself staring at your food and it’s staring back at you. You only need to ask or type.

I write a few lines, but my heart is not in it. My focus is not in this time and place but to past experiences and ones yet to come. Time crawls, well for me at least it does, and  keeping myself busy is all I can do to stop thoughts of you. 

I wonder what happened to the letter I last wrote, that time of me leaving our shores. Does it adorn your kitchen top, or reside in a shoe box or even at the bottom of a bin? It’s location is not of importance, because what has been said still remains true, and the last moments we spent reminded me of that, to be attentive to our needs no matter how brief our encounter. 

The train is pulling into my destination, I can see pools of sunlight welcoming me. While this journey may be at its end, I’m no closer to you in body, but feel more connected then when I boarded. Maybe it’s only a ticket for one, but I’ll keep your seat open on the return journey.

A deep sigh emanates as I disembark, the long walk provides opportunity for doubt to steal in. Diversion is needed, so I turn to music. The radio taunts me, Otis Redding sings with such pain:

‘These arms of mine
They are lonely
Lonely and feeling blue.

These arms of mine
They are yearning
Yearning from wanting you.’

All I can say is sing Otis sing…

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