Returning Home

The seat curves gracefully upwards, but it’s too close. Oppressively close.

A thousand dreams blending as we hurtle silently through the night. Spotlights on the few still watching the world go by; darkness blanketing the others who now only dream of it going by. Knees press into the seat in front. There’s dirt smeared on the windows; outside the dust of travel, inside the dust of travellers. Hands, faces, pressed to the window, and even when we remove them a tiny piece of us remains. We take a memory of that place half-glimpsed through a window, and a memory of us lingers in that place. We are the transients, flitting past, watching our lives out the window.

Gentle snoring, whispered discussions, impatient shifting. And a light, spotlighting me out of the darkness. It’s as though I’m at the centre of this great play, and the stage lights are directed on me. My hands respond by moving quietly over the keys, the overtures of a magnificent opus. I feel as though I should be telling the story, not just of my life, but of all of our lives. For now, as we travel between our destinations, we’re all living as one entity. Our lives will move ahead together for a while, some of us sleeping, some reading, some quietly chatting, and others, staring out the window, afraid of what’s been left behind, or eager to see what’s ahead.

There’s carpet on these floors. Once durable, now worn and threadbare. Shuffled over by a thousand voyagers, and the weaves remember their tread. What stories lie there, amongst the stains and tears?

It’s my face pressed against the glass now. Alone, awake, while the rest of the world sleeps. Watching as the outskirts of the city flash past; street lights once more illuminating the hushed interior. Drops of rain run slowly down the windows and the glass is now cool to the touch. The city appears and disappears amidst the clouds as we wind through the streets. People are waking now. The bond we’ve shared is breaking as we make ready to depart. By the time the bus pulls to a stop in the station, we’re no longer the thousand souls held together as one, but a simple collection of humanity.

The streets seem quiet now that I no longer hear the whispers and shuffling of a myriad other people. There are only cars driving past intermittently, humming along the streets, their tires throwing water across the pavement with a splash. But it’s late, and soon even that small flow of traffic fades as I approach my street. I can see my house in the dark, outlined against the glow of the city. Once more the world sleeps, and I walk through it alone. Alone? No, not entirely alone. I look up as I approach the front door.

There’s a light on, so I guess I know that someone’s home.