Some Distant Today
I watch a train go by, and I push my hasty thoughts aside, roll the train off the train off the track, just long enough to wish I was one of the drowsy passengers it carries far away. Dozing in a compartment padded with dreams and steam and whistle-lullabies, I would be tightly wrapped in a blanket woven of the same material that dreams are made of: the knowledge I am going somewhere. I am still, I am silent, I am at peace, but still I am moving, movingsofast. The world whizzes past the rain-studded window pane, incoherent blurs of people and places and movement and action, always action. But the shades are drawn over my weary eyes. The blank canvas behind my eyelids languishes, unresentful that I am in no great rush to paint it. The world rocks me with all the abruptness and abrasiveness of the ticking clock. And the train rocks me with the gentle rhythm of the forgotten cradle.
And when I wake, the world will be waiting for me, right where I left it at the stop closest to home. I will get off at the station of the new day, travel-worn and smiling. And the new day will be a new day, a new world, and not all the things I neglected to do yesterday. I will carry them with me no more, for I left that baggage behind before I boarded this train. And as the train rolls away, there will be time,
time enough for today. . .