The Train That Wait For Me

The first dream was last night, when I saw a train station that I had never been before, which was quiet, and was washed with a lavender sky. The platform was clear except an old train and the smell of rain and old paper. It was motionless as though waiting only to be seen by me. I entered and to my surprise there was no one there. Nothing but chairs with nothing in them, nothing but echoes, laughs, silence, lost words. Every compartment felt like it had a memory that I had not made a visit in a long time. It is as the train was going on that it did not hurry. It slipped-by -- southerly -- like the trip were more important than the spot to which you were headed. There, out the window, I could see pieces of my life: a classroom with the blazing sun and the memory of a friend that I lost quite some time ago, my childhood home bathed in the golden hour, and the past me who dreamed without fear. I once turned and glanced over the aisle and found someone sitting opposite to me. It was I--younger, and not so talkative, still with the same full eye of wonder. We did not say any word, but I knew. The same me was still around. Nothing more than festering right under the surface of the noise of growing up. A sudden stop of the train,--not at a station, but in a broad, starlit field. I got out and my shoes were met by grass. Nobody instructed me on what to do. I simply stood and I breathed in quiet. then I awoke. It was just a dream and yet it lingered. That sensation of being politely told that it is all right to stop and wait and listen and remember. Not all dreams require any explanation. They simply have to be experienced.

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