Do you think we can run away?
Let’s get on the train. You and me, two butterflies unable to fly, needing wheels to get to where we want. We can go on a day when your professor sleeps and my boss isn’t in her office. Feel free to wear your fancy shoes and favorite jeans. We’ll bring our luggages and satchels, unanswered calls and unspoken syllables.
On the way, we’ll throw the hassles into the trashcan. You can also take your revered camera, the one your grandmother gave you on your 15th birthday. Capture as many scenes as you’d like. On that day, you will not feel bad for taking space. No apology is needed for the stranger who sneers. Be like the last step of the stairs that didn’t say sorry when it made you trip. Wing it.
And me? I’ll bring my books with me. I’ll bring the fantasy, I’ll bring the sad ones. Let’s flood the train with years of repressed tears. We’ll unapologetically wet the seats and laugh when the elders scream. Get a warning from the others only for our laughs to get louder that they think we’re insane. Are you sad or are you mad? I bet we’ll answer in unison, “We do not have any idea.”
But wait, where do we go by the way? I am not picky. You say Hakone is beautiful, I say then Hakone it is. Odawara station is crowded in the morning. But we have strawberry jam and bread in our stomach, and we say we’re happy even when happiness is a difficult thing to stomach. On that day we do not puke. On that
day our bones do not ache.
We’ll sit at the front. And from our seats we can see the machinist in his plaid shirt. You say it reminds you of your mother’s tablecloth, so I ask, “Do you miss home?” But you only take a picture of his back, stare at it for a long time, and do not answer my question marks. You turn your head sideways and tell me instead, “I wonder if we’ll reach our stop.” You’ve
always said if like it’s a necessity. But on that day it’s just another word, lingering in the air, filling in the sentences. In the end I reply, “It’s okay if you do not.”
As the train continues to run on its lane, you’ll see me wearing a pair of earphone and wonder, “What are you listening to?” Then I give you an earpiece, and you can
hear The Carpenters singing how they’re on the top of the world. Once. Twice. I put it on loop. You ask me, “Are you on the top of the world?” Then it’s my turn not to reply.
See? We can plan it meticulously. We can even tell people the hydrangeas we see aren’t blue, or purple, or pink. On that train we can act like the tunnels erase memories. You do not recognize the plaid pattern, and I do not listen to The Carpenters. On that day you introduce yourself as the trees, and I tell people I’m the sea.
Then we’ll eventually get off. The train leaves us just as quickly as it takes us to where we want. We hear people talk about visiting onsens, but we go to the convenience store instead. There, we buy milk and cheese. Two cups of noodles and beers. We say, “Cheers,” even when the tears stain our cheeks.
On that day we run. We scream. You take countless pictures, I recite countless passages. We keep wandering until the sun sets and it’s time for us to get on the train again.
This time the seats are dry, and we no longer laugh. The tunnels retrieve our memories. You are you, I am me. We do not say that the hydrangeas are bleached.
We’ll say that they’re pink. We get back safely, but then, ouch! You trip. This time you say sorry, and I run to the bathroom to vomit.
And in the end, we’ll look for the hassles in the trashcan. We take them back with us. The unanswered calls and the unspoken syllables. The regrets and the madness. We call the professor and the boss. You call your mother and I get back to my rock bottom.
See? We can plan the day meticulously.
And still
after all that,
we go back
to the starting point.
