lemon.
Wrote this while I was hiding away in the cubby of a payphone:
I can see from where I am standing the entrance of the station, through it the parking lot that is centered about a roundabout, raised earth, a flag pole bound by shrubbery. I imagine how scattered the comings and goings must be for such a configuration, thinking to myself the wasted utility of less space in light of how it could be so maintained, the pointedness of a flat surface that is a knee-high block of enclosed branches and twigs. I look up after every pause as if I will suddenly see you through your windshield, looking back and smiling at a moment's notice.
At present it is likely that there is little reason to be so cautious. Aside from me, there were perhaps up to five other passengers who disembarked here, each with worn bags upon which I could sense a place for them to be. There is a station manager here but he seems uncaring of the young man sitting by the phone with nobody to call. I am half awake with chalky knees.
On the other side of the platform there is some fencing cased in undergrowth, sparse bits of tropical color through the green. Within a single lattice my eye is drawn to an inexplicable patch of smooth yellow that reminds me of a lemon. I think to myself that the place where I will soon live is so replete with lemon trees that they even sprout up along train tracks, and the fantasy makes me happy all the more at the prospect of seeing you.
I told myself that I was looking forward to a certain day but without also anticipating it, a day where I could recapture what it was that I had felt that I had given up after living so long in my father's shadow. “To feel as vital apropos of nothing else.”
I do not believe I ever write to make discoveries about myself or of some grand phenomena that we are all secretly apprised of as human beings — I only ever write, I feel, to find a silent point of relation with the person I am soon to become.