On the Train

Jane.
An original written by Alexandra.

Solitude (1965)
Paul Delvaux

When I moved across the world, I did not
think I could escape any further. I thought London
would be far, bright and exciting enough, but I find myself,
more than I am prepared to admit, feeling the
very unhappiness from which I tried to flee.

Every few weeks, I search for new places to go, to
which I can travel by train. The destination is far
less important than the train ride itself. I can simply
never sit still – I must always be going somewhere.
From what am I escaping? Running? Avoiding? I
can never identify the cause. Ironically, all I think about
on these journeys is memories. The old days.
The past. Either that, or what could be…could have been.

If I can so deeply reminisce and recount
what once was, why am I so eager to leave? Is it
because I am hopeful that wherever I am going,
the ‘could be’ awaits me? I have concocted, in my
imagination, such an intricate, detailed and
thorough idea of myself, what I want to be, and the
life I want to live. I abandon reality to escape to it
every night, every waking moment, every chance I get.

It has become ultra-real to me, I am
convinced it must exist…somewhere. And I will
continuously search for it until I find it – trust me,
I have spent years. I am only twenty-three,
but I feel aged and tired, and this is certainly
not the first life I have led. I believe each time
I incarnate, I continue to search. My soul is lost.
She cannot rest until she finds whatever it is she is
yearning for. I am tired, and I desperately want it to
stop. I have lived too much in my head, now I
cannot stomach the life I actually live.

If I were to buy a single ticket with no return…
if I were to pack up my entire life and leave without
a whisper…how long would it take for them to notice?
Would there be a big campaign conducted to plead for my return?
Would there be posters with my face smeared across them,
plastered all around town? Or would there be an unspoken
understanding that this is the best for everyone?
Would anyone even notice at all?

The happiness only lasts as long as the train
ride. From the departure to the arrival stations,
I can absolutely quantify it. I can draw it on a
map – a clusterof isolated limbs that have no cohesion
or sense. How sad it is that I even look at my fragments
of happiness with such pity. With each trail of joy I
outline on this map, I am no closer to finding it –
whatever ‘it’ is. This hopeless search riddles me restless.
It has kept me up at night for years. Years and years.
When will it end?

At least I always have my train rides – no matter
how pointless I realise chasing shadows and rainbows
is. It has now come to a point where I do not have the
faintest idea of where I am going. The destination
is not nearly as important to me now. I just look
out the window, marvelling at the sheer speed at which
the train is travelling. Sheep and cows, dotted across
a landscape of green, gone in a flash. Lone houses,
with dimly lit halls and smoke puffing from the chimneys,
watching my train – one of many that day – come and go.
Kilometres of land whizzing by in a matter of seconds.
With all this, I am unambiguously reminded of this notion:
this will pass. It will all pass. 

The Lady on the Train (2017)
Jennifer Calhoun