I get images, like anyone else does, about things they read. Sometimes these come painfully. They are vague and shadowy, and one must concentrate hard, harder, to bring them forth. Often these images aren’t true to themselves. They are not what they actually are. They change themselves, because they do not want to be seen. I usually see this type of image when I am trying to understand something that doesn’t come clear. Or if I am trying to write something that doesn’t want to be written, it hides from me. This paragraph itself is an example. I sat for a full minute before I was able to start it.
Other images snap into focus. They are fast and beautiful, and, more importantly, they are talkative. They wish to share everything with you, every detail of themselves, and you have but to listen and the write (if that’s the case) or merely enjoy. When one reads a good book (which seem to be far and few) such a thing happens. Believe it or not, Harry Potter was such a book for me. Harry just seemed to shine, his pages quickly coming to life before my eyes.
The final type are those images who are shy. They want to be seen, but they want to be safe. They want to hold back from you, because they are so special that they know if you work for it, they will be all the grander. These are most often the types of images I see when I write. It takes a delicate prodding, but they come forth in their splender, and I put my pen to paper or my fingers to plastic.
I saw you on that train, peering listlessly out a window into the wintry landscape
that passes on by, tears reflecting back the golden sunlight that danced on your face. These were tears of fear, uncertainty, and frustration. Tears that screamed “Why ?” and “Why me ?” in their silent path to your lips.
You sat with your coat and purse, which appears more like a shoulder bag, thing and with clasps, legs crossed under a what appears to be a stylish, red, ankle-length skirt. Around one ankle is a faded, dark green ankle bracelet and around one wrist is what looks like an unadorned charm bracelet, but is actually
a time piece. Time doesn’t matter anymore.
I stand there, in the dark, three doors down from yours. I can see the sunlight poor out the window in the door into the hall. And I can hear a snifle and a sigh. I walk forward and the light on the dark red carpet, though muted, reflects up onto my face, illuminating my eyes. They’ve welled up with a commiserated pain. I walk forward, to your door; and knock.
You turn with a start, and the beams highlight your straight brown hair in a flash.
“Mind if I share company with you?” I cautiously aire. Your hand goes to your mouth, covering those same lips that are moist with your sorrow. Then you get up and run over to me and throw your arms around my neck. You close your eyes, forcing out more tears, and I can feel them on my neck and cheek. I share a tear with you.
We embrace for what seems to be forever. So much is spoken, but unsaid, and so much more is understood, but unquestioned.
We go back into the car where you sit in the sunlight again, but smiling this time. I sit opposite, in more shadows, but smiling this time. And the train rolls on. On to Holland.