home journal abt mine outside dreams

Commute, 2021

There isn’t anything here for anybody. The rain rattles the glass and the wind roars through the bushes outside. It is early morning, dark and cool and fresh and not a soul to be seen wandering the thick countryside. Not a soul but the cows, and they certainly have souls. They stare at you with deep brown eyes that appear to recognise you, an old friend from times gone by, better times that didn’t leave you hollow. From the confines of the bus, however, I am not recognised. Instead, I whirl through the country roads, past vast expanses of land shrouded in heavy fog, past the cows and their deep brown eyes that know more than you ever could. I know that the fog and the clouds are the same, but what I find harder to believe is that the specks of white cotton dotting the hillsides are neither. There isn’t time to think about it for much longer, though, it is still early morning, dark and cool and fresh and the roads are not yet full. As the sun begins to show itself I turn my gaze towards the sky to see the clouds illuminated pink and purple and orange. Honey pours from the heavens, flowing upstream until it turns darkness into light, draws the day from the night, and turns what will be into what is.
If I could only remove the glass pane from the window and reach my hand out to hold the wind, I would not feel as alone. I would give anything to leap from my seat and trace the grass’ sweet dew with my fingertips, to hear all around the soft humming of bees. The gentle sounds of a world infinitely more intricate than my own.