I find myself back In Sommnia.
Everything. Has. Slowed. Down.
The giant clock that dominates; high up on the wall,
suspended over the wide arch that is the entrance to the
busy train station of Sommnia; it*s second hand barely
moves. Stuck in limbo - quivering - you can*t notice the
second hand move: stare long enough at it and you wonder
if it*s your imagination moving it...
The second hand is taking an eternity.
Seems like everything has stopped. The trains of thoughts
arriving and the trains of thoughts departing. But are they?
Due to the extreme slow pace all motion seems immobile.
The crowds of colours are quiet halting ripples, stuck in a
cycle they*re unable to complete to then move forwards.
Hence everything: a sort of blur; a sort of convergence of
colours, images, smells and sounds. And emotions - fear,
desire, courage, loss, hope... - dense and dominant. The
announcement over the loud speakers is
incomprehensible. At least we haven*t slowed down to
match the slow extremeness of the giant clock (yet?).
The busy train station of Sommnia seems to be
underwater. Are we drowning?
Time almost given up.
The busy train station of Sommnia ground almost to a halt.
But I feel the pressure; I feel Sommnia*s pressing need and
determination to move on, to accelerate unrestrained, and
my head feels like exploding.
Fear - an urgency - a need that must be met or...
The end of everything?
My own movements are slow on a parallel to all that is
presently Sommnia: is like tredging through thick treacle
mud. When I can put a foot forward. Everything, everyone
on a par. One level. There is a kind of united harmony to
that. Odd.
But this has to change. It has to go back to what and
where it was before.
Then, suddenly - like a razor-edged blade slipping at once
through butter - I find myself running, having somehow
broken free. Yet while all around me is still imprisoned in
the halting cycle of time. How can this be? Anxiety
clutching me as I run along the platform - but where or
whom am I running to? Somehow I will know the answer
to that question when I come to it. Everything in good time.
As everything has it*s place in time. Tis the precedent
order of things: The chaos of balance.
I am running while all those around me blur and transcend.
Sights, sounds, smells unified, now indistinguishable. All
my senses razor-sharp.
I am running, easily dodging the numbers in the crowds: I
want to laugh out loud; it*s child*s play!
And then I see my journey*s end: the person I am running
to: where my journey begins.
The Station Master is sombre and tall, navy-blue
uniformed, complete with cap; he is smoking a pipe.
Beyond and wise. The smoke from the pipe drifts languidly
upwards, then bursting like fireworks into coloured
rainbow clouds. It*s very pretty. The Station Master of
Sommnia must stand well over 9 feet, he is looking down at
me, and I feel insignificant and small.
"Your train has arrived." He says. His voice is soft and
gentle, but there is a firmness to it that makes you feel you
wouldnt ever want to argue with him.
In the other hand he holds a large brass clock on a chain -
attached to his waistcoat. I stare at the clock face of this
and realise with a start that it is ticking normally - I spin
round to spy the time on the giant clock of Sommnia but
the time there is still as before, almost unmoving.
How can this be? I want to ask, but my train is arriving.
Not like the other trains of thoughts, arriving or departing,
but arriving in normal time; arriving on time. But it seems
to fly against the stagnant background of Sommnia. The
screech of its powerful wheels and brakes, the steam
billowing out like that of the Train Masters pipe - only much
larger clouds like mist, and the steam fills my nostrils and I
feel nostalgic. The good old days. The days that are so old
they are forgotten.
The Train Master opens the carriage door and I slip inside.
It*s like going back in time. The carriages are separate
compartments with doors on each. Wood and brass and
metal; wax polish, tobacco smoke, ladies perfume, coffee.
But this train is empty. Not a sound to be heard, other than
that of the train being stoked; not a person to be seen,
other than those - I see out the window - in the crowds of
colours on the platforms.
I find a compartment at the back. It is soothing to sit inside;
it feels like coming home. The wax polish smell and the
smoothness of the worn wooden bench. How many have
sat in this very spot before me? Above me are wooden
racks for holding travellers* things, but I know somehow,
its not what they really are. Yet the carriages are used.
The Train Master gives the signal, and the train begins to
move.
Inside I am hoping that everything will be well In Sommnia.
Im looking out of the window, at the crowds of colours,
seeing their faces. The look of hope on all their faces. The
train gathers speed, I catch the face of the giant clock and I
think I saw the second hand just tick.
A complete second.
~by faith 2005~
Copyright © 2005 Stephanie Faith
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* S o m m n i a S t r e e t *
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