We stood at the edge of the land. We looked out to sea. We were prepared for a momentous arrival. But we had no clear idea of what was coming, and nor did it arrive. Then, we began to hope for a departure, equally momentous. Before long, we also gave up on this. Eventually, we learnt to yearn for an ebb-tide powerful enough to suck boyancy from the world, and strand all the boats of the sea.
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You had desired to wait upon a platform where trains neither arrived nor departed. But now, you are lost in a station from which you may embark upon a journey to any destination in the world.
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I arrived at the station. I had forgotten the town I was travelling to. I asked the clerk at the ticket-office the name of the next stop. I desired that he should provoke a memory of my destination by listing the names of familiar nearby places. I had often experienced a sense that what was missing was near to hand, a word or object next to, but not, the one before me. The clerk hand wrote a pass that would enable me to freely travel to any destination in the country. I thanked him but refused this. I explained how certain I was that my destination was close by, and I did not want to miss it by looking too far-afield. He did not want to give me the town's name, and went to find the station manager.
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I am nothing but a property of the momentum which carries us through these increasingly unfamiliar lands. Of this journey, all that I may truly claim as my own, is the small desire for getting off at a slowing corner before the next stop.
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As if to an invisible instruction, a crowd of holidaymakers moves en masse from the beach into a sea which wraps them in waves of silver oblivion, just as exhausted athletes are sometimes draped in foil blankets upon arriving at the finishing line. (after Ballard)
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