The Way Home

Waiting. Hoping. Leaving. You walk out quickly and set your bag down for a moment within the dispersing crowd. You close your eyes and ignore them. Wear the jacket which is as much a protection as a garment. Like a charm. Like the empty expression on your face, it protects you.

Your burden resumes its place on your shoulder, dragging you down. You walk with weariness almost comfortable in its familiarity. You embrace the silence and loneliness. Nothing else is there.

Someone knocks into you and apologises. You mutter a reply and hold yourself smaller to squeeze through the faceless crowd. Someone tries to talk to you. He does not know it but you wish he did not exist. Not that you hate him-no, you don't care enough for that. Its a cold resentment-things would simply be simpler if he hadn't tried to get involved. He smiles at you and says he thinks he's starting to understand, that it goes without saying.

You tell him he has no idea what he is talking about (really, he could not), and board your bus.

You get on the bus and make too pleasant small talk with two faces your recognise. But they're not really the one you want to see. And they both know that the feeling is mutual. Its okay. You sit next to each other and do your separate things. Your own escapes.

You decide to leave someone a message, but delete it from your mind before it is even complete. You consider leaving one with someone else. You decide against it. You think of the story you are reading- that of a dead man. The latest book in a long series you started long ago and resumed when the silences came back.

And all this time you were talking to yourself. Now you write it all down.