The distance between you and
me is unreal: sometimes it shrinks to a speck and dissolves, but then as soon
expands and throws us seas apart. Worse, once written, this fact becomes either
poetry or raving, and not the felt experience.
When I say I do not feel I'm
alone anymore, I keep the sense of my life at some specific distance away from
your life – the distance needed for you to support me. But isn’t that distance
between you and me unreal too? You could be thrown far apart the next moment –
so far apart from where I mightn’t even exist for you.
The only real within us is a
redraftable version of life. A version that burns down the bogus life lived up
to now, along with its trials and errors. But that, when written, becomes
either poetry or raving.
number 7229 scuffs and paces the sun-scattering silvery rails of bare and
remote villages. Mud-walled houses, like modest indifferent raccoons, rise, stare
and turn away as soon.
where vehicles wait and watch.
platforms throwing up desolate benches.
haphazardly lying boulders basking naked in the plateau sun.
sit back as the light fails outside: into eyes that aren’t looking at anything
come a hand that swings a lantern, a pattern of lights left behind in a town, a
cold bulb lighting an empty street circle, a shadowy mansion with just one of
its top-storey rooms still lit – someone reading?
number 7229 races into the wet morning with its one and twenty sooty coaches,
thumping through more bare and bushy villages. Sunlight slowly filling the
panes, tall green trees swinging their smiles, a river shying away amongst
glistening sand – the train leaps and catches up the seven minutes it was late