Musing: While listening to Radio Ballet

Why do I do this to myself? While I try to appear stoic, calm, cool, collected, I cannot help but to feel a potpourri of emotions. I am in an empty room, listening to a bittersweet piano tune, looking at blank walls with shadows where pictures once hung. I am finished, and I am plugged into the white walls as my fingers touch each key of my white computer, which connects to the white wall with a white cord.

I cleaned out the room today; I threw away remnants of the past year, while keeping things, memories that I wanted to remember down the road. I have yet to say goodbye to anyone, and I do not know if I will say goodbye anyway. I did not say farewell to my roommate, but rather received a text message from her saying she was leaving. I respond through a few finger strokes, wishing her well, sending hopeful remarks to her much the same way as I am writing this. And there. It's over. Will I ever see her again? I am not entirely certain.

I had a dream last night. In it, a man was in a train station (which one I cannot recall), and trains were coming and going, coming and going. The massive bullets would slowly enter, drop off a crowd of people, and begin to part, taking people with it. The mass movement of people occurred for several hours, all while the man stood amongst the masses, hat in hand, puzzled. Coming and going was random yet certain, and he had no idea from where he was coming and to where he was going. To busy himself, he picked up a newspaper and sat on a bench. Distraction. He read about current events, but occasionally the sunlight would seep through the thin paper and he could see others. Others coming, others going. He saw clasped hands, he heard the warm sound of two fabrics rubbing against each other as two friends would embrace, he heard the footsteps of four feet coming closer and closer together, their stop, and their eventual steps going apart. The man looked to his feet. He had shiny black leather boots, and he could see his reflection. The man folded his newspaper matter-of-factly, placed it in his right arm, grabbed his briefcase, and walked. He heard his two footsteps, not coming, not going, not meeting two other footsteps. He walked, and walked. The train station soon became empty.

This is where my dream becomes unclear. While walking down the dark blue hall, the man decides to walk on the train tracks. Holding his hat, he jumps down the platform without minding the gap. He jumps into the gap. The tracks and gravel mute his footsteps. A voice calls down to him: "You have, you know."

The man looks up.

"There are those steps in your life, those others you desire. You have them."

He looks into the distance. A white light is slowly growing.

"Turn back," the voice says.

The man stops. The white light grows closer.

He looks up. Infinite darkness. He looks behind. Painful silence. He looks forward. The white light grows closer.

The empty walls begin to buzz; ceramic tiles begin to fall and shatter on the marble floor. The white light grows closer.

He falls to the floor, dropping his hat, dropping his newspaper, covering his chest. The white lights blind him. He hears the roaring engine of the train. The white light grows closer.

The voice makes a final plea. The man's eyes are illuminated. The train pushes forward, the white light is gone. The train station is pitch once again. Morning brings the light, and people come and go.

What a way to start off a summer. I'm getting stoned.