Destination of a Writer.

I need something happy to happen–like right now. I can’t find it in the sun or the moon or the stars like I usually do. I need something terrible to happen. I need to break out of this mould I am trapped in. I need to feel something, anything, just not nothing. What happened to the clouds? Or my thoughts when I looked at the clouds? I used to see it differently–this world. So what happened? Where did it go wrong? Is it wrong, or am I wrong? They look like…white wisps of…nothing.

I used to write things–notice things, like how the clouds drift by. Not in a hurry, but not so slowly that they want to savour the sky before moving on. They belong where they are, where they were and where they will go. They see me, and smile. Like strangers with deja vu, our lives meet briefly, politely we pass, never to see each other, left only to wonder about their story. My hand drops the pen with a sigh of boredom.

There is a man sleeping across from me. Why hadn’t I noticed him earlier? He shifts in his sleep and his eyebrows furrow. I want to run my fingers through his hair until he dreams happily again. I wonder who he is, I know where he is going–West like everyone else, but will his stop be soon? Or will he wake up, see me and decide his stop is wherever my stop is?

I close my eyes and dream for a while too.

I am in a meadow–daisies, sunshine, lemonade, and a man with a handsome smile and beautiful eyes looking at me. I want him, I want to feel what he feels when he smiles at me. Why can’t I love like him, smile like him? I have no mouth, no eyes, no hands. I cannot smile or laugh or cry or…write. Is this a nightmare?

The train stutters, in my slumber my head hits the window and I awake with a wince rubbing at the sore bit, the bitter aftertaste of a nightmare left on my mind. I take notice of the darkness outside. The vast, wide horizon, and the proud mountains in the distance, my breath fogs up the cold window and I rub until I can see the picture clearly. I grab my journal and pen to paint this image in words. The beginning of the day peaks between the mountains playfully, teasing me here and there, I try to capture it and force it onto the daunting, blank page. I think I failed.

I have had this thought for a while; “friends of a writer”. I wonder how I should translate this world into my writing. Isn’t that scary? Imagine being friends with me, and being scared of being real to someone who could see you as inspiration for a fictional character–imagine being stuffed into the mould of a two-dimensional character of someone else’s will. Perhaps I’m better off being alone. But alone has never felt more lonely.

I see the day get brighter and brighter, the sun getting warmer and warmer, and I hadn’t even realized my hand wasn’t holding a pen until a drop of water raced down the window and onto my hand. I put away my journal absentmindedly, my gaze still transfixed on the view beside me, and for the first time after a long time, I didn’t feel ‘nothing’.

I’m not happy…I think. Nor am I sad, but rather determined. For what, I’m not sure. But should I let this fire burn, brighter and brighter until I can use it to see my world more clearly? Or fear its touch will consume me and leave me in ashes?

I hadn’t even realized I was alone in my cabin since I woke up. I wonder what that stranger thought of me when I was asleep. Did he take a moment to caress my face with his thoughts? Or am I not a character in anyone’s story but my own? Even if that is so, I think I’d be okay with that, as long as I am the writer. I rummaged through my bag to look for my backup, backup pen and the train continued its Western route moving on from Alberta and onto Beautiful British Columbia.