A Questionable Train of Thought

A Questionable Train of Thought

by Niegel S. 

I do not know this train - its origin and destination,

Why I boarded it, and why I don’t know anything at all

I do not know its name, or my own for that matter,

Not even the name of this woman whose chilled hand I hold

I do not know her face - separated by these warm bodies

Pressing against me from all sides - there is only this cold tethering us

I do not know why I know that she is a certainly a she,

Or that she is dear to me; only that I don't want to let go

I do not know why she does though - as the doors usher in this unholy air

And screech when they move to close. She has escaped me. 

I do not know why her back is so familiar to me,

Her hair billows in the wind as my hand reaches for... 

you

Desperate to be where you are

The doors have closed and still, there you are

And I am here

But you are there

"why

are there

so many 

whys?"

But I do know why I withdrew my hand:

because I was afraid of this pain:

Of closing doors 

And that cold unfeeling air

Still, I do not know why -

Why had I let you go?

Why had I let you go alone?

But truly I do, and that’s the reason

why

there are 

so many

whys.

~~~

I didn't think three weeks would whizz by, but it did. There was so much to do that the endless summer syndrome didn't plague me. That said, I didn't feel productive at all. Like my New Year resolutions, my goals for the summer are left unchallenged. My unproductivity is an effective reminder of my ineffective time management skills. It does make me wonder how I'll brave my sophomore year (which stars next week).

Merde! I am growing up too fast. Or rather, time is passing by all too quickly.

Anyway, seeing as my freedom will soon be crippled by academics, I thought a nice way to cap off my first summer as a college student was to write. I chanced upon the idea for this piece during one of my many train rides. I hope you liked it!

Someone Who Writes

I am someone who writes, but I am not a writer. Although the dictionary would say otherwise, I can't convince myself that I am one. I just don't feel worthy because unlike the authors whom I've put on the pedestal, my words aren't beautiful enough, tragic enough, painful enough, powerful enough. My words - my voice - aren't strong enough.

Writing doesn't come naturally to me. At least, not as strongly as it did before. Even back then, when I got flashes of inspiration, the trail of words would vanish before I find where it's supposed to lead. I have to flail around before I can write an ending. An ending, not the ending. Not the gut-wrenching, stomach-churning, heart-racing finale to a most wondrous epic but a somewhat sensible resolution to a story that had potential.

And I know this sounds horribly depressing (especially as the first post) but I've come to approach it as one does when faced with universal facts - with an almost imperceptible nod and a shrug of my shoulders. I am resigned to my inferiority.

It doesn't, however, change the way I feel about the written word. I am still in love with words, with books, with poetr:

 I am in love with its sights, in the landscape of Paris and the darkness of hidden alleys.

I am in love with its voice, in the softness of a child's tone and the roughness of an alcoholic's slurs.

I am in love with its scent, in the crispness of pre-loved pages and the promise of newly opened books.

I am in love with its tastes, in the sweetness of first love and the bitterness of farewells.

I am in love with its spirit, in its hope to shake a person's core, changing him/her for good, for better, and for forever.

Ironically, this reverence for words (which dissuades me from knighting myself as a writer) is the same thing that motivates me to write. I hope to improve my skills so that I can effectively transform my thoughts into words. I want to be better so that I can transmit my message to a broader audience. I want to be better so that I am able to touch another's heart.

I want to be better so I that I may one day call myself a writer.