Train Station Folks

I love people in train stations, they're either blurs through boxcar windows or statues waiting to get somewhere. I once attempted to write a story about two people who met in a train station, but like most of my literary endeavors it lacked a plot and didn't go anywhere. Your story has to go somewhere if it's set in a train station. So, when I saw a most interesting boy sitting in the Eurostar station in London, I imagined his trip back to Paris. Imagined him reminiscing the whole way about his English adventures... and I invented reasons he'd come to London, lovers he'd left in France, and new faces he'd met in the U.K. I pictured a few souls mourning his departure in downtown London flats and French souls anxiously awaiting his return... then the mourning souls turned into brief aquaintences he'd knock horns with and was now running away from the trouble he started in a foreign country and the anxiously waiting souls were anxious because they didn't want him back. Aso I'mnd the story twisted and turned like this for a while till I couldn't make a decision on his story and settled to just paint him... but I couldn't capture him the right way either... so I'm perpetually frustrated over a boy I don't even know who I took a picture of in a London train station....

I hate that song "realize" by colbie callet(sp?)

There are summer nights, chilly summer nights, on freeways at about 10 at night... when you've just separated with whom ever you've spent the day with and you think to yourself why am I alone right now? I hit realizations all day everday. I volley in a violent way, like a pinball, from realization to realization and often the lightbulbs that appear over my head contradict each other till I end up, late at night, on an inner city highway without a conclusion and alone. It's the kind of sensation that makes me want to pull my car over, hell maybe even stop it in the middle lane, get out of my vehicle and shout out over the overpass "I AM RIGHT HERE!" as though the whole world were looking for me and I'm indignant upon its blindness. Amongst my daily realizations there's really only one I'm looking for and it's the realization from something out there beyond that overpass, further than those streets can take you, deeper than any person sleeping through any window. I have my redemption and my glory in my Lord, but every now and then I want to be acknowledged by the world. A selfish, foolish craving... and attention-seeking motive, but if the majority of your life is lived passively... is it too much to ask?

It doesn't count yet

I have a terrible sensation that nothing I've accomplished in my life counts, and it's brought upon by my leaving. Living somewhere where no one is going to know me, where I don't have a reputation yet, almost erases my entire past. Almost... what a chickenshit word; it does erase my past. This should thrill the overbearing temptation to attempt to be someone else, because in a world with no familiar faces I could be anyone. But instead I'm dreading the chance to be the foreigner. I am not me these days.

The furniture for my new living arrangements is awkwardly sitting in the living room of a house that I am living in but is not mine, which is exactly how dorm life will be. So you'd think the dorm-style pieces wouldn't strike me as so out of place, yet I can hardly look at them very long without feeling uncomfortable. Those aren't my things; my things are in an oriental-red room with a south facing window on the corner of Gatewood place and Gatewood court. But to actually find that location would prove my things are not there and to confirm that I am in a most uncomfortable state of limbo. I am a baby bird without a nest to fly from. And on top of it all, I use horrible metaphors.