On my way. Drifting across seemingly motionless flat lands in the distance. Daydreams of accepting an award, any award, accompanied by white noise that starts to sound like applause. Louder, thunderous, a standing ovation. Abruptly, a dark tunnel jolts my gaze towards her angled reflection in the window. Waves of compressed sound. Shrieking. Straining. Her windowed presence pulls me back to reality. My acceptance speech will have to wait.
The train cart lights up again. Her face disappears into a blurry onslaught of green meadows. Paintings, framed between wooden beams that divide our journey into chapters; from here to there. The smell of coffee, my phone sweating in my pocket and a lack of any human sound in a space that doesn’t demand silence. Trees. Roads. Cars. Order. A yellow haze rushes past; the train from there to here.
Her tired and bleak reflection pulls my attention back to the window. For a second we lock eyes. The next tunnel cuts through our reflected introduction. Rays of light stretch pass us, from me to her. Her eyes occupied by their rhythm, following every light in the tunnel. With each starting glimmer, I imagine sending positive thoughts to her. But to no avail. I look away from the cold window and turn my face to see the dull faces of my fellow travellers. An impregnable silence killing every desire you might have for small talk.
I remember another life, in a country far away, filled with spontaneous conversations about lost liberties, expected rights and slaughtered dreams. Dialogues where no one disagreed. Our lacking was self evident, yet verbalised at every turn on the path towards our shared visions. So what about us, here in this train, don’t we miss anything? In our temporary cell, where freedom is a given?
A thick fog descends upon us like a blanket. Isolating us even more from the outside world. There is a slight indication of a smile on her newborn reflection in the window. Her face glowing in the light of her mobile phone, eyes gleaming. A growing smile affirms her departure to the digital world. Where she seeks refuge from us.
I don’t blame her, given the absent stares of the passengers we share this ride with. A ride that all of us repeat voluntarily every single day because we have the freedom and privilege to follow our dreams. We don’t miss a thing.
The fog clears. Her face in sight, two chairs in front of me.
Departed.
