Where with all
Six thirty in the evening and already twilight. It looks darker but I don't know the word. Black sillouettes of trees and dark blue clouds on the back line horizon. Bright light refections on the window. Fully lit train car softened by the falling dark outside. People working, reading, talking on their phones, busy busy busy not making contact. Busy blocking out people. And I have no protest. I'm in here, listening to my tunes of choice and draining my head of what I can without being caught.
The big one that jumbles all connections.
Dead pulse waiting for the other end. Ears popping
The dark on the other side doesnt make it obvious we have made it out the other end. Small lights, tail lights, lamp posts and office windows glitter on the other side of the trees losing leaves.. In the ten minutes I have written, the sun has lunged for the other side leaving no line to disect the ground and sky.
Today I turned over thoughts of home during the walk to the station. Home, that original nest that once left can never fit again. It is like that. Just like that. My bed is sooo small, almost as small as the room when I visit Gladstone. Just like when I visited my old elementary school.. I had never realized as a child that the bathrooms were customized for little people. I never did then. Memories of important things being out of reach, the sink, soap and faucets.. Can't be true. At some age it fit just right. Somewhere between 5 and 11 years but I can't hold it right in my memory to feel it. Only as an adult can I see it, with imperical eyes.
Like many things, here across the ocean from the first nest, I have big empty places where things used to fill me. My nose greatly misses the place in my morning where mother filled it with iron steam, shampoo, and damp wafting around with the spray starch and sunrise. Squeaky springs and soft tapping on doors- reminders to get up.. Mornings where I didn't question whether it was a choice to get up, only a choice to get out of bed now or in 5 minutes. It was always on and on and endless time to get through, endless months and seasons, years and school grades.
There are so many experiences and people that make "me", but mostly right now I feel made. Finished and cold, missing the heat of growing, learning, wanting, wanting wanting. Today I want to be then. I want the maybe, and hopful, the new and I'll find a way.
I'm suppost to be happy. It's not a final state, I get that. It's journey and direction and learning and failing and being surprised and disappointed and loveing and losing and many things. I know. I know. I get it. But something is wrong. The soul is not burning hot with screaming curiosity and love for life. I'm cold and quiet.
I have a place to live, people to work with, a city to live in, a world to mark..
But I have no home that fits like my skin.