The Journey of never Ending

Erratic jolting from side to side is the first sensation I become aware of as I slowly rise from my slumber. Before opening my eyes, I take in the machine gun chatter of people around me, slowly realizing it is just one rather loud voice reverberating around a small space.

Hesitantly I open my eyes to discover I am seated in a carriage, full of commuters. A carriage that reminds me of the country trains I used to catch to college in my younger years. The first fellow commuter to meet my eye is a man seated directly opposite. Reading the paper, he momentarily looks over the broadsheet, gives me a slight but warm smile, then goes back to his paper. With his horned rimmed glasses and muted tones of his slacks, shirt and jacket, he exudes a sense of someone traversing life as simply as possibly, happy with simple pleasures like reading the morning paper.

In contrast to the man’s serenity is the middle aged lady seated next to him. Dressed garishly in florals, with a hot pink hand bag and lime coloured shoes, she is animatedly sharing a story about her gifted grandchildren to a younger woman seated opposite. This younger woman seated to my left stares vacantly ahead, as though lost in a completely different realm. Her stare penetrates straight though the over enthusiastic grandmother and feels as though it penetrates though the walls of this carriage. However, her occasional nod, as though programmed, is enough to justify the grandmothers continued incessant chatter.

The fog in my mind is as thick as Dutch Pea Soup, but it would seem my mind is not the only thing effected by fog. I turn to look out the window to try and ground myself, try and identify where I am, why I am here and where exactly I am going. However, the country side outside the window is also shrouded in a thick fog. As we reach a slight bend in the track I peer out to see how many carriages are included in this particular train. What I perceive to be the possible end of the train slowly disappears into the Pea Soup.

Moments later we hurdle through a station, at such a speed I do not have time to read the name or make out any of the faces of the people standing on the platform. Only now do I realise the pace at which this train is travelling. Much faster than anything I have experienced before. But nobody else in the cabin seem to notice the station we have just passed at lightning speed, or seem concerned with the pace at which we are travelling.

I lean over to the gentleman opposite and ask which way to the toilets. He replies with his warm smile again and goes back to his paper. Not a big talker I suppose. Probably handy when you have the chatter box queen seated next to you.

I rise and head to the door of the cabin, apologising as I pass through the middle of the passengers. The gaudy grandma and staring woman continue on as though I did not exist. Once out into the hall that runs along the side of the carriage, I turn and head towards the front end of the train. Along the way I pass various cabins like ours, each containing a mix of people, chatting, sleeping, playing cards. One cabin is full of young student types regaling each other with stories from the weekend at their respective homes. There is much laughter and high pitch squeals as one of the girls tells her friends about a phone call from a young man that is obviously admired. This whole scenario brings back so many memories, of a time that was so innocent and joyful.

The toilets are located at the end of our carriage. Luckily my years as a student on trains has trained me well for the challenge of using the ever moving, jolting, jostling boudoir. Once finished I decide to wander further along the train, perhaps find the food cart for a coffee to help lift the fog. As I wander I pass more cabins each filled with a strange mix of characters. There are office workers in suits and pencil skirts, tradies in their high viz tops and hard yakka trousers, farmers in flannel shirts and Akubra hats, glamour pusses in all things that sparkle, children with peanut butter in the corners of their mouth, elderly people dependant on the aid of a Zimmer frame. In amongst the sea of faces are some more unusual characters. In one carriage there are a couple in luminous lycra, festooned in beads and feathers in their hair, looking as though they have just walked away from the trapeze at a circus. In another carriage I see the face of a bobble ganger of a previous prime minister who I had voted for many years past, before his fall from power and eventual irrelevance in the news.

After walking for what felt like an eternity and finding no signs of a food cart, I suddenly feel utterly exhausted and in need of rest. I head back to my original carriage as though on autopilot. I can see no reason why I could not just stop in at one of these other carriage, meet the inhabitants and snooze in their seats. Yet there seemed to be an internal homing devise pulling me back to my original point, regardless of my independent thoughts. Once finally back in my seat opposite the mild mannered man, the gaudy grandma and next to the entranced young lady, I quickly closed my eyes and slipped into the never never.

Jostle, jostle bang, crash…… I slowly re-join the real world, leaving behind the solace of slumber. As I open my eyes I am again welcomed by the slight smile of the gentleman opposite, still reading the paper. Still chatterbox is going at lighting pace about the joys of her grandchildren, how exquisitely beautiful they are, kissed by angels, and their prowess in all things academic, sports, nature; even the four-year-old seems as though he could give Einstein a run for his money. I wonder how nice it must be to be so absolute in your bias that it doesn’t occur to you that strangers on a train couldn’t give two hoots about your grandchildren. I am assuming here that the other passengers in the cabin are not acquainted, as they do not seem to try to actually interact with our vocal flower garden. They simply let the chatter wash over them, too well-mannered to stop the flood.

The younger woman still stares ahead, lost in her own world. Only now I notice a tear in the corner of her eye. I wonder if the tear is due to the trauma of having to listen to the incessant chatter, or if she is facing her own demons in that world she stares so intently into? Still I have not heard a word from her mouth, just the slow melodic nod of her head.

I lean over towards the gentleman and ask, “Does she talk at all? She seems upset about something”. He smiles back. I continue, “I know this seems strange, but I can’t actually remember where I’m heading to”. Still no response so I persist. “In fact I don’t actually remember getting on a train. Crazy I know!” The gentleman gives his warm smile again. Now that smile is starting to erk me. “So why are you here?” I ask, to try and put the impetus back on him. “Where are you heading to?” Still not a word. What the heck is going one here.

The man fumbles in his bag next to him and pulls out a small pad and a pencil. He jots something down and passes it to me. I read ‘I am deaf and mute. Please write what you have said’. I blush the colour of a ripe tomato immediately, embarrassed by my rash impatience and assumptions. I write ‘What is your name?’ ‘John’ he replies. And so starts a conversation that winds long into the day. I learn of Johns horrific past as a deaf and mute child in the cruel world of Christian Orphanages. Taken away from his mother as an unmarried woman, he was passed from orphanage to orphanage, abused physically, mentally and sexually by various respected staff and priests. Freedom from a Dickensian system only came after the Government finally changed the rules regarding the homing of people with disabilities in the 1980’s. Now allowed to join the outside community, John has found his independence. Our conversation is so intense that I have failed to notice that we have shot past other stations, other blurred names and faces. My final question to john, ‘What do you have planned for the future?’ is met with a knowing smile as he puts the pencil and pad away and closes his eyes to sleep.

I am confused by this sudden end to our conversation and wonder if I have said something inappropriate. I stare out into the fog outside, never seeming to lift, never giving any secrets of the world we are passing through. A passing notion of ‘Where am I?’ rises then disappears. Strange that my need to know and how to get off this ridiculous ride seem to be fading each hour.

The constant chatter from our floral boutique slowly starts to gain some clarity in my mind. However, something in the tempo has changed. The grating over exuberance has slowed and the voice even has a slight quiver. I focus on what is actually being said and realise our floral boutique has transgressed into regrets. She is sorry for not being a better mother, grandmother, friend. She talks of trying her best, but her best never being good enough. The barren sense of loneliness tears at my heart as she becomes lost in despair and laments what might have been. The exuberant floral cocktail of colour, patterns, action and chatter have suddenly faded into a jungle of dying weeds as she sobs herself to sleep.

Yet again I feel exhausted by all that I have discovered today and curl up in my seat, staring out into the fog as we speed past another station, another sign, another sea of faces waiting for the train.

This time I am not waking up on a strange train, but in my own bed, surrounded by my beloved keep sakes, photos of family, favourite perfume, earrings given to me by my late husband. I breathe a sigh of relief and roll over to get up and start the day. However, my body does not wish to comply. My mind pushes forward eager to take Barney for his morning walk. Nothing happens.

After a time a strange sensation starts to take hold and as if by magic I start to lift into the air, hovering above where I just lay. I’m confused and frightened, but something inside reassures me that this is as it should be. I slowly turn to face downwards, a feeling of acquiescence enveloping my being. A strange sense of looking into another’s world fills me as I stare down at my body limp in the bed. Next to the bed is a half drank cup of tea on the night table and my book I had been reading is strewn onto the floor. My face looks peaceful, even possibly a little bit of a smile in the corner of my mouth.

I wonder who will find me? How my loved ones will cope? Have I lived every moment to the full? I hover over my body for some time, contemplating these questions and many more. Slowly a familiar fog starts to creep under the door. As the room starts to fill, my vision of my body gradually starts to dissipate and already I am grabbing at snatches of memories to fill the void. The fog finally takes the last memory of my body and I am floating in the never never.

Erratic jolting from side to side is the first sensation I become aware of as I slowly rise from my slumber. Before opening my eyes, I take in the machine gun chatter of people around me, realising it was just one rather loud voice reverberating around a small space. I too am now a passenger of the train to never ending.