To be Taken Away

A train speeds by Clapham Junction on its way to Haslemere and I remain here. It is cold - winter's air was whipped up by the speeding train and an overwhelming cold front bears down on the platform I'm standing on. As the train disappears, I feel the anti-climatic silence it left in its wake.

I want to go home.

The next train will be mine. 20.52, the sign reads. It is now 20.32. I'm waiting patiently. I desperately want to get out of this cold. London feels so alien to me and nothing here feels real enough for me to grasp - the place, the people - the workings of Greater London is a mystery to me.

I can't wait to be home.

It's now 20.39. I wonder about time and how its brought me here. Four years ago, I was living with family and now I am on my own - not completely; I am with friends - well, not exactly; they're in Surrey and I'm waiting to get on that train which will bring me through the winding train lines of the London-Surrey border so that I can go home. 

I wish I never left home.

It's 20.50. They just announced the train for Portsmouth is pulling into the station - this is my train. It pulls in front of me exactly at 20.52 and the doors open. As people disembark onto the platform, I leave it, taking my bag with me. It is a small bag with just enough clothes for one night because that's all I'll be needing. The train begins to pull away from Clapham Junction, and within seconds, we pick up speed and the view outside becomes a mass of incomprehensible colours and forms. I'm very excited.

I'm almost home.