I woke up, with a few seconds of familiar yet short lived relief, before I remembered. Who I am, what happened and where I was. Such a short reprieve from my permanent grief. All that was needed for the train to hit me full force over and over again was for the memory to rear its ugly head. It replayed itself in my mind, impossible for me to turn away or close my eyes. Impossible for me to shield myself in any way. Realisation of reality. My dream snatched away from me along with my sleep. Another day stretched before me before I could hope to forget again. I reeled from the impact of the train as I tried to mentally prepare myself for another day of motion.
It must be a train. Every morning it arrived at the same station, I was standing on the tracks waiting for it, without fail. It hit me each time, never fatally, just enough to knock the breath out of me and the grief into me. I always stood on the tracks, never beside them and even as I saw the train coming I wouldn’t move. I couldn’t move. It was as if I needed to feel it hit me everyday for the grief to be real. The circuit was my life. Everyday was the same routine; a set of stations that needed to be passed through and ticked off. A mundane routine which I had to take part in, in order to keep going with my life. Not that I was going anywhere. Stuck on the same train on the same repetitive and limited circuit.