DESTINATION; DISTORTION

DESTINATION; DISTORTION

                                   

Train stations are so strange. Every destination all over the country is just a chamber of mixed emotional gain or loss.

You're constantly leaving or meeting someone, feeling happiness and excitement on your journey there. But leaving brings you an overwhelming sadness. My mind leaves me demure and isolated at my seat. Watching through the window at repetitive fields. It's funny how you're always on the move but everywhere looks the same.

The vision of the train station sign slides away, I memorise its thick bold text through my strands of hair, blinding my eyesight. I slide my fingers to swoop the parting of my hair and clear my vision. The world is such a strange place. Though my vision is clear I always feel blinded by the world somehow.

I wish I could fabricate a remedy to clear my sight, and smear away the constant filter of visual distortion.

The table seat -

Constant awkward eye contact and never feeling any comfort. It's like you've constantly got a spotlight on you, people judging you by every movement. Sitting quietly just thinking, like the girl opposite me. Who's constantly clacking her boots into my ankle. I'm transparent to her, just another stranger filling in the spaces.

The ignorance of some people make me happy, I hate conversation with strangers.
There's always bad eye contact but for once I've not glanced over.

I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the window. The collision of fields, trees and clouds over Malvern Link pace through the right of her cheek.

My throat tightens and suddenly I'm hit with sickness.
I watch her face clash with the overwhelming beauty of the countryside. Beams of sunlight flash with speed through trees and into our window, forming patterns to slide over her face. I've not looked over once and I know she's a rose.

My eyes magnify her every move with deep observation. Suddenly the window turns black and we're passing through a tunnel. She's caught me, everything bright and open turns bleak and into closure.

The speakers call out the next stop, I've never been so angry at a recorded message.
She tucks her phone into the biggest pocket of her bag and vacates her seat leaving a presence that leaves a man aching at the heart strings.

The way people come and go is one of life's worst assets, if only I'd have said a word to her.

I'd finally have an answer, we could have hit it off in a romanticism you only see in scripts and film reels.
She could have became a friend, maybe more..

I doubt she'd have liked Sonic Youth though.