寂しいとき、どうしたの?

[What to do in loneliness.]

I watch the train driver lean out the window as we pass the station, hand on the emergency break. There are blue lights that you can stand in at the ends of stations, almost ultraviolet in their subtle comfort. When we pass the platform, the conductor closes the window and removes the key that would allow the train to stop suddenly. When we come to the next station, even ones we glance through on the express, the conductor has been trained to lean out and watch the tracks.

The light, I noticed, is sometimes switched on for rainy days, too. Such a subtle and quiet prevention plan. One, I assume, most people don’t even know exists.

I stand in the blue light every time I wait at the station when the sun has gone down. I find the coming home alone is the hardest. I think my ears must still unconsciously listen for you at the door, in the other room. I think my mind is waiting for your coming in. My heart trying to justify in terms of logic and reason why it hasn’t happened yet.

It is a mean, hard-pressed, and lasting habit with barbs hooked into every late-night though, every half-woken moment, every sudden start from a nightmare or a dream. I had not even known it needed breaking until just yesterday.

But, how does one leave off a thing never consciously done?

Perhaps, by consciously doing something else. A behavioural cut-up until the torn-up, shorn-off feelings fade. Until habits do not directly contradict reality.

How long is that? Three days? Weeks? Years? A lifetime?

Do I have enough time left alive to place anything in the hole of you?

It’s worth a try.

Maybe I should make myself a blue, almost ultraviolet light and lay in it at night.

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