Mydriatic Endeavours

I awaken with a startle from my uncomfortable nap against the hard metal wall, feeling a sensation of embarrassment as my eyes catch the discerning gaze of the elderly woman beside me. She dismisses me with the clearing of her throat and slides across the chair considerably, at last giving me the chance to breathe. I run my fingers slowly through my half-gelled hair, groaning slightly and slumping in my chair. ‘Why did I bother with my hair anyway…’ The others’ in the train seem occupied in thought as they study their magazines and stare worriedly at the passing stations outside. ‘Why am I even on this train?’ I ask myself again, aware no answer would surface.

The truth was I had no purpose, other than to fill the void of a happy teenage life populated by superficial friends and uncontrollable hormones. This is not who I am, nor who I shall be; but in times like these, sometimes I wish I was that carefree. The train is filled with businessmen and women; like a packet of tinned sardines – embodiments of the office standing sternly and big nosed, as if never admitting a single fault or ‘lesser’ attribute in their nature, though squeezed in the overcrowded carriage.

The filthy train passes a bump and I fall, though quickly regain my balance, I am unnoticed by the people. Perhaps she was disgusted at the idea I nearly fell face first into a mouthful of graffiti on the granite beneath our feet. Nevertheless, the elderly woman does not dismiss me this time, yet hides her growing smirk behind the cover of a romance novel. I think for a moment of finally meeting her, of her being firmly within my arms. I can smell her, touch her, and confront her on all these conflicting emotions… I glance outside the dirty window and watch the pylons and symmetrical railway tracks flicker past rapidly, a sure indication the train is indeed moving and not stagnant, as it seems.

‘Who is this girl that I yearn?’ My heart sinks and I return to my normal position upon that question, and just how far away I am from the answer. The rickety doors open with no due haste as the train comes to an abrupt stop at Strathfield station, filled with students from all around. Boys chew gum, with headphones over their ears and spiked hair trying to appeal to social image, while many pretty girls pretend not to stare at me, bury their faces in conversation with friends, and pass me by. ‘Who are these boys?’ Not that I wish to know their identity, I wish to know of what elements have formed them, what motivates them and what they wish to achieve. I refuse to perplex myself by pondering the same question of the girls; though their beauty astounds me, excites my hormones and hidden desires.I watch the boys’ arouse flirtatious conversation and see the girls seduced by their empty words and promises. ‘Is this the path I must follow?’

My mind recalls overheard conversations between my mother and grandparents,

‘Why aren’t the girls chasing after someone as handsome as he?’

In my mind’s eye, I see myself stuck in quicksand with my arms reaching forward in desperation, though pulled down into the abyss below. A rather sharp bump to the head instantly destroys the visualisation and my eyes are drawn to a threadbare scarf beneath my feet. Sown faintly in pink read the words ‘Know thyself’ and quickly I realise this had been the garment of one of the girls. Before I am able to gather myself and rush after her, I stop for a moment and ponder those words.

They run through my mind like warm honey, opening a new door of blinding light.

‘Who am I?’

The voice of my heart speaks out in a plea, ‘You are yourself. You are what you create of yourself, not something that is created.’

The visualisation of quicksand transforms into a bountiful vineyard of fruit bearing vines, awaiting my savour. Each grape represents a talent and gift of mine; music, art, literature. I am overwhelmed by the bounty around me, the bounty within me – the bounty that is I. The answer to the unanswerable question comes clear to me now, and I am able to answer it without hesitation. ‘Before I can love, I first must love myself.’

I rush through the closing train doors with the scarf, toward the girl and do not need to call out for her, for she had been expecting me.

I vanquish my negative thought patterns to give into temptation; a sumptuous warm hug. I do not ask who she is, as she answers for me, ‘I am. Now that you love yourself, I can love you.’

I look back at the people who once occupied the unlevel foam seats who spoke a million words yet said nothing. I realise that it is now my time to leave though have no hesitation of looking back at everything I have conquered. Never again must I doubt that voice that tried, though did not force itself to be heard, for its counsel is greater than any other...

-Matt