I used to be a night traveller.

Rocking in the maternal belly of a train wagon as the whistle blew a strident lullaby that cooled the mind of all past and future. The rhythm settled me into a world of distant lights and lives that passed by in a flicker, reassuring in the certainty that as they disappeared, they continued on different paths unknown to me but sure underfoot nonetheless. And now as I stand still in a house on a hill, somehow I have become those flickering lives that pass by in rapid instants and all of a sudden no certainty remains. I disappear and reemerge unsure of foot and fragile in a steady world that rambles my mind with a confused cacophony of angst and pain. I see my distant mother-train as she suckles the lucky passengers on their way. My way is a spiral path that distresses and aches as I grasp on to the brick walls that oversee, overbearing. Why can’t I stay when still, and breathe in the peace of those lights that persist beyond the dark horizon, glorifying a constancy of life?


About wilhelminatunnels

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