Sometimes, reality thwarts with its subtle ways.


My head rests against the window. The station glides lowly past under me, and the speed cuts the landscape into horizontal strips. The carriage is empty. On the train I want to be undisturbed as i dissolve in the chaos of the speed, I want to feel safe being nowhere. Let this train travel endlessly, please, let it refuse every arrival. I always sit facing the front of the train. I like to see what’s ahead of me through the window. Ellen invariably sits with her back to the direction of travel; she turns her back on what lies in store for her. She looks only on what she leaves behind, identifies with her past, wallows in it, slips away in it. She wants to evade the new and unknown. I need the enthusiasm of the new, the stimulus of naive hope. Ellen curls up with the hopelessness of the every growing amount of what is left behind. So when we used to take the train together, we always sat facing each other. How i loved that arrangement – it was reassuring. Sometimes Ellen came and sat next to me. Then we looked together at what lay ahead and i felt uncomfortable.

My Brother’s Gardens, Hans Op De Beeck.

Read the full short story here.

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