Station to station. Lover to lover.

Stopping now, Emily throws her head back in gay abandon. She’s panting from all the running. Her throat feels like rust. She lets the dust in the wind dry her lips. She lets the wind blow through her hair. She lets her hair slap her face. She lets her face be. Poker faced Emily. Always hiding a saucerful of secrets. Opening her mouth only to spit out the dust.


Scared, Emily continues to run. It’s her favourite disguise. It’s her beloved escape from the world of black and white. It is the grey in her bubble. She runs like hell, her mind racing back and forth. Back. To a time when violet delights were purer than religion. When star crossed lovers sought atonement in the bottom of a shared tomb. Forth. To the east. To the sun. To the promise of promises. To hope.


And until the time that she is there, Emily lives with the curse. That for her, transience and permanence are interchangeable. That she can never really belong anywhere. That perhaps, despite her evil laughter, the joke was always on her. That she will forever chase chaos and not rest until she knows exactly what the method in the madness is. That then, the tiniest semblance to commensurateness will stifle her and send her back to where she started from.


She trembles at the thought. Glances over her shoulder to look at what she’s left behind. The memories are growing distant. The smiles empty and vacant. The voices fainter, so suppressed and sunken – almost like feeble echoes. But the smell of her betrayals grows stronger. Yet again, the only way for her is forward.


The labour of love. Of a warm red blanket. Of life and learning. Of the dullness of surprises. Of frightful suddenness. Of doomed thrills.


Of a bane. Of running from station to station, lover to lover.


One Response to “Station to station. Lover to lover.”

  1. Jeevanjyoti Says:

    Adrenaline in the words! Loved the motion and the feeling of restlessness it evokes… against the backdrop image of stretching from a fading past.

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