Halted

Try running for a train, jumping  down the stairs, and hopping onto it just before it picks up speed and zooms into distant nothingness. And while you’re finally catching breath feeling like you made it, realize you are on the wrong train. Your train was a minute late or ten minutes before, halted on the parallel platform. Amidst all the missing of trains, hoping on wrong ones and finally catching the supposed right one, try to throw in the thought of worrying about right and wrong trains, waiting on platforms trying to reach for undecided horizontal destinations. And then imagine yourself covering vertical distances instead, flying to horizontal extremes always feeling like you’ve mistaken arrivals for departures. Imagine yourself just trying to get the coordinates right on that geometry test and being disappointed with one error, and then finding yourself ticking multiple choices of longitudes and latitudes, with no definite answer. Always being the strongest in the flawed human nature of wanting what they previously had and yet always romanticizing the unknown, pretending to be a compass through change. Make tiny monuments out of fleeting memories, coronate the constants and then go scavenging for the gigantic unknown. The only guarantee being, you later craved for the previous escape. And then the only escape you’re stuck with is the one on your keyboard, esc. Like a big person, made tiny and little and locked in this bottle called the dream. The dream is all about, believing you’re in this tiny glass bottle, but the fact is you’re just stuck out in the big world, and you’re running out of time with no escape, no backspace or fast forwards. And you’re just paused, with this audience which is your previous self, waiting on you to stop taking flights to previous memories, not want you to open maps looking for new places to put  a tiny house on, like a monopoly board. Try filling yourself with longing for people who leave, or sometimes for the one’s that just never completely stay, wanting to be the one who takes off, rather than waiting at arrivals for the feeling that won’t stay.  And you might happen to stumble upon this irony, when you’re half the world away from the coasts of new south wales you could have called home, or the middle east from the one person you want to reconcile already forgiven disputes with, or the one’s in Europe you lost your friends to but the one’s that they found themselves in, or the one’s embraced by mountains and rivers that you still have pledged your arrival to, the city of dreams that you once left for your own dream. On long haul flights, the crippling need for a lover that would have never stayed or arrived at any other occasion other than your departure can get cloudier than the turbulent skies. The paralyzing regret of putting any through everything you’ve felt when your childhood friend left the country, or your best for boarding school, or when first love moved a continent away can be very short lived when you know you can make tiny airplanes of reassuring feelings. A hundred days of to being obsessed with a single place, until you arrive at that one, and then move to the next only to crave for that one place you just left. It all seemed simpler when it was missing the right train, for the date I should have never arrived at. For being early to see love, being loved by another. It was simpler picking wrong courses, less deserving of my aspirations. It was simpler waiting for delayed flights and wondering where next after each flight, until you’re stuck mid air, in between still waiting to pick that one place you have to land at, not realizing you did that before you even got on that flight. Is home really where the heart is? And what if the heart is a wander and a home maker all at once.