Non-Morse Tapping

tHey picked this day to light the sun. Here I go, I am sitting on a bus room full of people and just time away from taking the train in the sky. My parentals are with me. I am to write, I am to read and do exercises so that blood can travel where/while I travel. It is a go, and it is breathing; where I sit and when I stand. There aren't thoughts I give away just ones that are beginning and then stopping. It is a Friday, a Friday of emotion. A Friday where I just felt love. A Friday where I just sat and felt.

This is me talking about my feelings. This is me going on about my freedoms. The sun is shining through the steel sponging outside the window. I have forgotten about me. My right wrist suddenly pains a dull, gravity pain. And I am still typing out these words.

Packing is a deal, because it has to be done right and mama will ensure it is done so. I imagine that on the yondering train I will be wandering about in my memories, a boy with a ball, a boy with a turtle on a string, a boy with building blocks, a boy pretending he is a mode of transportation up a mountain during winter. In the background will be Sarah McLaughlin. In the background will be André with "Lasa-ma papa la mare"

vreau distractie si soare
m-am indragostit lulea
am aflat ce-i dragostea.

Then in an inbetween, perhaps on the flight from KL to Schiphol, where I will be drafting an essay on Kipling's Stalky & Co. Maybe I will watch a movie.

The other person next to me has a slide open that is titled Degradation of amino acids. I hope the food on the plane is good. Probably will be in compartmentalised containers, airtight so that when I pull the lid off and it is quiet enough I can hear the food sighing its no-longer-asphyxiated sigh.

Today I say goodbye for a month to mattering people. Many arms around my back, many of mine around many of their backs. And squeezing, then releasing our no-longer-asphyxiated sighs. I want it to be a necessary air that I breathe, a shared air, an air of dawn during a crepuscule.

I am aware that this too shall pass, and it is with that awareness that I yearn to catch the train. There are these words that I have written, and they point. I have forgiven them, so I think them not rude anymore. I have let them keep pointing. Right now, they are pointing at somebody. I don't know where he is. I don't know who he is, if he was the same he that wrote this or another he that just pointed and another he carried over his pointing into this retina-hitting hieroglyph accumulation. Ordures ou trésor (trés or, ha).

I am waiting for the final words, so I can end. Though I can end here. Or here. Or here.

(Or, ici) Where?! Where?! On Earth. In New Zealand. In Auckland. On Symonds Street. At IC2. At computer 2C07. On the keyboard. On the J key, or the F key.

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