The Slowest Moving Train.

Suddenly now, I know where I belong.

Travelling north, travelling north to find you
Train wheels beating, the wind in my eyes
Don’t even know what I’ll find when I get to you
Call out your name love, don’t be surprised

It’s so many miles and so long since I’ve left you
Don’t even know what I’ll find when I get to you
But suddenly now, I know where I belong
It’s many hundred miles and it won’t be long

Nothing at all, in my head, to say to you
Only the beat of the train I’m on
Nothing I’ve learned all my life on the way to you
One day our love was over and gone

It’s so many miles and so long since I’ve met you
Don’t even know what I’ll say when I get to you
But suddenly now, I know where I belong
It’s many hundred miles and it won’t be long

What will I do if there’s someone there with you
Maybe someone you’ve always known
How do I know I can come and give to you
Love with no warning and find you alone

It’s so many miles and so long since I’ve met you
Don’t even know what I’ll find when I get to you
But suddenly now, I know where I belong
It’s many hundred miles and it won’t be long

I get too tired after midday, lately.

This is it. I know I’ve been saying that for a while, but you must feel the resignation. Is it resignation? Is it renewal? Is it some kind of rebirth? Is it forgetting the horrors of the past at the expense of the joys there? Is it letting the past go, where it can run wild and free across the plains?

I don’t know how to love.

I’d take you home after midnight, and I’ll tell myself lies; how I’ll be in love by the morning. I’ll look myself in the mirror, and see the paunch, see the few spots still on my chin, see the hairs on the vanity, on my hands, and I’ll say what I always say; “It could be worse.”

Don’t go, say you’ll stay.

I’ll never spend those lazy Sundays.

“Everyone loves Reilly.” “Why?” “Because you talk to everyone.”

Why didn’t I take the opportunity sooner?

“You’re awesome.” “I know.” “You wish.” “No, I really am.” Laughs.

There isn’t much left, in any of it. I’m not going to be up the front, that’s their job now. I do not do, I do not do, anymore black shoe. I laugh my head off at that, every single time.

I’ll see scruffy skinny and beautiful, maybe, one time.

“You might be surprised.”

I don’t think so.

Resignation, renewal, everything, everything, everything in between. Izzy, Emily, Lydia, Alice, Jordan, Hana, Katey, everyone else. This is it. This is as far as I can run, as far as this train can carry me.

The whistle blows, the conductor is yelling all aboard, and the slowest moving train is picking up speed.

Am I onboard, or am I standing on the platform?

Which one leads to happiness, to renewal? Which one leads to love, and loss, and falling, and being saved, all the things Lily dreamed about? Which one leads to the girl and her egg? Which one releases balloons, and remembers little Charlotte, and what she means?

“ALL ABOARD!”

The slowest moving train is leaving the station.

I’m staying right here, on the platform, and I’ll let it sail right past.

I’m home, now, as home as I’m content to be at the moment. I can watch the faces in the carriages as they pass, and wave goodbye, to those that meant something and those that never got a chance to. I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ll watch my face in the glass, my own tears reflected back to me, and I’ll make a decision.

The writer’s mind is by no means linear. The decision’s already been made.

The train is passing me by, but really, I made the choice to get off. So I’ll wave it goodbye, and I’ll watch it leave.

Reilly de Wilde, whatever’s left of him, is still on board. Aventine stands, fresh and new, on the platform.

A/N: http://mushaboommushaboom.tumblr.com/ is my new blog, to celebrate the end of this chapter of my life, and the beginning of the new one. Plz, follow that, because I’m not going to be posting on The Slowest Moving Train anymore, but it’ll still be sticking around for posterity’s sake.

It’s many hundred miles
But it won’t be long

Second last day letters.

I left the keys in the car

There isn’t much left to say that I haven’t said already, and the truth is, there’s not much left I want to say. I could say that she shouldn’t be with him, you should be with me. I could say that she didn’t know how badly she damaged me. I could say that meeting him was the worst event of my life. I could dwell on the negative, because that’s what I do. I dwell.

Mr. Negativity.

Well, I sure lived up to that. I killed that cat; I was the negative, the pessimist, the sure-fire wet blanket designed to be damper on any situation you could give me.

I left the door ajar

There are two sides to every story, including those ones. Her being with him made me realise that I was a great substitute, but that I let myself be used. Her breaking me made me rebuild myself in the image I wanted. Meeting him made me question the darkest, most confusing parts of my soul, and I found the answers I needed.

It all made me better.

Made me stronger. This isn’t a Kanye West song, but the point is; I am much more for these experiences than I would be without them.

I didn’t want to be alone

There’s stuff I didn’t do.

I don’t like people saying that we shouldn’t have regrets. Regrets are important, if for no other reason than they let us reflect on ourselves. I overanalyse; I know I do. I read too much into the slightest connection, and why not? Connections are not my forte, and my forte, communication, is dependant upon them.

So yeah, I have regrets.

If I could go back in time, I would. Start year seven again, do everything differently. I’d diet from day dot, get skinny, get a cool haircut, wear cool clothes. In this alternate universe, you see, I have a sense of style when it’s actually required, rather than about five years too late.

You are the days and the nights

I have regrets, but at least I have things to regret.

I have losses that I want to rectify, connections I want to make earlier, or differently, or not at all.

Loves I want never to have loved, friendships I want to make stronger, and more than that, much more… I want to be a different person.

I am a different person.

And the sweet humming heights

I have a lot more to grow. A lot more changing to do, a lot more manipulation of my own personality.

Jesus, this post has been so poorly written.

But the point, if there is a point, is this; time is running out, and when time is running out, and looking forward is becoming harder to do, there’s just one thing left to do. Look backward.

So that’s what I’ve been doing.

I want to remember yesterday fondly, without thinking, “Oh, I should have done this, I should have done that.” So guess what? This is my therapy. Aventine’s on his way, Reilly de Wilde’s shit has to be cleaned out before he gets here.

The slowest moving train is getting ready to hit the rails…

And I know it used to be home…

http://mushaboommushaboom.tumblr.com

The fourth.

It’s not there.

Shan’t ever be.

Am I sad?

Or just disappointed in myself?

The slowest moving train is pulling out of the station.

The slowest moving train’s days are numbered.

I feel like it’s important, because right now, I’m at the water’s edge. I feel like I’ve got to dive in, shed the old stuff.

I’m making peace, I’m writing the confessions, I’m getting my emotions out.

Three days left.

This is a half day, tomorrow is a dolphin cruise, Friday is nothing.

That’s it. It’s over.

Sally could have had any one of the boys, but she couldn’t love nothing she could not control.

But anyway, it’s taken a while, but the slowest moving train, the train that’s been moving too slow, is done, too. This is it. No more train.

I’m retiring this blog, come Friday. Not deleting it because, frankly, there’s too much good stuff here to do that.

http://mushaboommushaboom.tumblr.com/

That’s the new one.

Follow it, yeah?

More Adventurous/Portions For Foxes/Does He Love You?

It’s only dogs that we’re counting on fingers broken long ago. I read with every broken heart, we should become more adventurous. And if you banish me from your profits, and if I get banished from the kingdom up above, I’ll sacrifice money and heaven all for love. Let me be loved.

Let me be loved.

And if my brain quits, well I guess then that’s just it, and if my hands stop working you can call me lazy. And if I get pregnant then I guess I’ll just have the baby, let it be loved.

Let me be loved.

I’ve been trying to nod my head, but it’s like I’ve got a broken neck. Wanting to say I will, as my last testament. For me to be saved and you to be brave, we don’t have to walk down that aisle. Because if marriage ain’t enough, well then at least we’ll be loved.

I felt the wind from the east coming down on my cheek, and thought about how we are all as numerous as leaves on trees. And maybe our’s is the cause is of all mankind; get loved, make more, try to stay alive.

I’ve been trying to nod my head, but it’s like I’ve got a broken neck. Wanting to say I will, as my last testament. For you to be saved and me to be brave, we don’t have to walk down that aisle. Because if marriage ain’t enough, well at least we’ll be loved…

/

There’s blood in my mouth because I’ve been biting my tongue all week. I keep on talking trash, but I never say anything. And the talking leads to touching, and the touching leads to sex, and then there is no mystery.

And it’s bad news, baby, I’m bad news. I’m just bad news, bad news, bad news.

I know I’m alone if I’m with or without, but just being around you offers me another form of relief. The loneliness leads me to bad dreams, and the bad dreams lead me to calling you, and I call you and say… CLEAR!

And it’s bad news, baby, I’m bad news. I’m just bad news, bad news, bad news.

And it’s bad news, baby, it’s bad news. I’m just bad news, bad news, bad news.

Because you’re just damage control for a walking corpse, like me; like you. Because we’ll all be portions for foxes. Yeah, we’ll all be portions for foxes.

There’s a pretty young thing in front of you, and she’s real pretty and she’s real into you. Then she’s sleeping inside of you. The talking leads to touching, then the touching leads to sex. Then there is no mystery left.

It’s bad news, I don’t blame you. I do the same thing, I get lonely, too.

And you’re bad news, my friends tell me to leave you. That you’re bad news, bad news, bad news.

You’re bad news, baby, you’re bad news. And you’re bad news, I don’t care I like you. And you’re bad news, I don’t care I like you, I like you…

/

Get a real job, keep the wind at your back, and the sun on your face. All the immediate unknowns are better than knowing this tired and lonely fate. Does he love you, does he love you?

Will he hold your tiny face in his hands?

I guess it’s spring, I didn’t know. It’s always seventy-five with no melting snow. A married man, he visits me, and I receive his letters in the mail twice a week. I think he loves me, and when he leaves her, he’s coming out to California.

I guess it all worked out, there’s a ring on your finger and the baby’s due out. You share a place by the park, and run a shop for antiques downtown. And he loves you, yeah he loves you, and the two of you will soon become three.

And he loves you, even though you used to say you were flawed if you weren’t free.

Let’s not forget ourselves, good friends. You and I were almost dead, and you’re better off for leaving, yeah you’re better off for leaving.

Late at night, I get the phone. You’re at the shop, sobbing all alone. Your confession, it’s coming out; you only married, and you felt your time was running. And now you love him, and your baby, and at least you are complete. But now he’s distant, and you found him on the phone, pleading:

“Save the baby, I love you, and I’ll leave her, and I’m coming out to California.”

Let’s not forget ourselves, good friends, I am flawed if I am not free.

And your husband will never leave you, he will never leave you for me…

Muck-up day letters II.

I tried to do handstands for you

Dear _____,

She’s really not that great. I mean, she’s pretty cool, but you do not have to be antarctic to me whenever she’s around. Any of them, really. There are two yous, the manic, awesome, incredible you. And then there’s the you that’s with them.

Too cool for school, certainly too cool for me. I love you, I really do, but my god, girl. Treat me like a human being, and not for nothing, and maybe for everything, I’d stop the world for you.

Love,
Reilly.

But everytime I fell on you

Dear ____,

It’s unfair of me, but I don’t care. How could you do this to me? How could you just cut me off like this. That’s it, you know, we’re done. Not my choice, but definitely yours. I’m not going to be around, not really, and this was how we communicated.

Now we can’t. You made the choice to sever this connection, this way of linking the two of us together.

So then, really, we’re done.

Love,
Reilly.

Yeah everytime I fell

Dear _____,

So yes, you bastard, it’s your turn. How the fuck could you do that to someone? To me, who would have given you anything. Or everythinhg. But what I’m saying is what I’m thinking, and what I’m saying is; it would have ended badly, anyway.

You didn’t destroy my world, you just pissed on the ashes. The embers of Reilly de Wilde smouldered for a while, but I think maybe Aventine rose from the ashes. It’s yet to be seen what, exactly, Aventine will bring to the world.

Love,
Aventine.

I tried to do handstands for you

Dear _____,

I was in love with you, dear, and you weren’t in love with me. My definition of love is a pathetic one. It’s a boy’s love, a glowy little obsession. I’m not obsessive, not with people, because I just don’t have the focus.

I was in love with you.

I still love you. I wish you nothing but happiness, because you deserve everything, everything, everything.

Love, and I mean it this time,
Reilly.

But everytime I fell for you

Dear ______,

I’m sorry I underestimate the depths of our friendship, because you are the person, you are the person, that I would keep in contact with, long after we are all set adrift.

I’m sorry I don’t always stay level with you, or keep my head, and I’m sorry. But I don’t care, I don’t, because it is you. You are the person.

From your loyal chief of staff,
Reilly.

I’m permanently black and blue

This is it, for a lot of us.

This is the fork in the road, the place where we all part ways.

It was fun.

You were fantastic.

And do you know what?

I’m permanently blue for you…

So was I.

Muck-up day letters.

Dear ______ _______,

So I think I’m in love with you.

Weird, because we’ve spoken exactly three times. Weird, because you are who you are, and I know who you are, and you know who I am. Weird, because I look at you, of course I do, how could I not, and weird, because you look back.

I’m not… sexually in love with you. Although you are unspeakably good looking. I make no secret of my crush on you, but it’s much more than that.

It’s not an obsession, because I’m not focused enough for that.

It’s an idealisation, an idolisation, and it’s weird. Told you, it’s not healthy. You’re perfect, in my eyes, except for your, frankly, nasal voice, and even in that there’s some weird kind of beauty.

Allow me to rephrase it all, rephrase the entire premise of this epistolary confession.

I’m not in love with you, I’m in love with the idea of you.

You have amazing hair, and stunning eyes, and flawless olive skin, and you’re skinny, without shoulders and without a chest. Also, lopsided smile for the win. You’d fit into those amazing clothes from Who’s Yoko? without an issue.

I don’t want to be with you, I want to be you.

This isn’t healthy; this level of idealisation. You’re perfection. I’ve heard this from people before, I’ve rolled my eyes. My archnemesis had his thing for Hugh Lightbody. I thought it was pathetic, and it is, because so is this thing of mine.

Reilly de Wilde is dead, Aventine is someone new, and the slowest moving train is finally pulling out of the station.

I’m looking forward to leaving, because I’m looking forward to leaving so much behind, including you.

Those three times, though, are mental anchors.

A party, you’re outside, and I scream something about Saxby’s ginger beer. I see you at school, Sophie Ruddell says I’m in love with you, and you hear, and I say jokingly how hot you are, and you laugh. At the dance, I order a Fanta, and you tell me the price, and your fingers brush my hand.

You know the really sad part?

That’s the limit. As far as I can go. I can’t say anything else to you. Am I scared that the perfection will not be as perfect as it seems? Am I scared that the perfection will reject me? Yeah. Yeah I am.

It’s annoying. Three days, and then I will never see you again.

You watch me. A friend of ours tells me you watch everyone, but I was walking to Desa’s, and you were in a bus, and you were watching me. It was weird.

I loved it.

I wish I could talk to you, but that’s an impossibility.

So yeah, giz shout?
Reilly.

Talk to the neighbours and tip my cap.

So there are five days left.

Oh, thank Jesus.

There are five days, and then we’re done. Then I’m done. So I’m standing here, now, alone. Alone and lonely, by myself and that’s okay. By this time next week, it’ll be over.

I’ll be done.

Thinking back, there’s a lot I regret.

I’m in that kind of mood tonight.

There’s someone, someone I’ve seen twice now, and they represent a kind of perfection I long for. Skinny as a rake, smile like nothing; I want that. I have shitty teeth, and my eyes crinkle up; I look retarded when I smile. And the skinny, well there’s nothing new there. Those jeans… if I could fit in those jeans, oh Lord, I’d never complain about anything ever again.

I’m alone. Not alone, but lonely. Not home, but homely. This place… I think I’m getting sick of Tumblr. I want to be able to reach out. No hugs tonight, I don’t think I’d be able to let go.

It’s a shame, Friday was such an incredible high.

Didn’t win, wouldn’t change a thing, that kind of high. It was such a perfect day. Saturday was soot-streaked, and dust choked, and I guess the clarity was swallowed up by the storm. Sunday was… just work, and chicken, oil and now Spider-Man’s on TV, and Feist is playing, and Izzy’s deleted her Tumblr.

Alone again, naturally.

‘Mushaboom’ is the worst song to be listening to in this kind of mood. Melancholy, I guess I’d call it. Oh, old dirt road, knee deep snow, watching the fire as we grow old? It’s everything that could make me happy, and it’s all… so far out of reach.

Feist has a theory of the future; that we collect the moments, one by one. I have a different theory.

I have a theory is that the future is just now, but on a different date.

Nothing ever changes.

Melancholy doesn’t go away, and clarity is always fleeting. I’ve got game, but the issue is, I don’t know how to play it. There’s another game, one I’ve been playing for six years, and here’s the thing; I’m on the home stretch. It’s almost over.

Five days. 

And that’s it.

(mushaboom, mushaboom)