As the saying goes: to discover new lands we must first lose sight of the shore. Risking loss to find something new, making that heavy decision to step into the unknown.
The trick is to hear the voices in the rain but not to listen. What’s the phrase? Feel the fear and do it anyway. Well not only can I feel the fear but I can taste it too. Tastes like stale seagull shit. When I finally roll to a stop at the agreed place, it’s morning. I stepped out of the house in the dark, closing that door for the last time, quieter than I ever had before. When the car rolled silently, lightlessly down the drive, there was one less pair of shoes at the door and always will be.
But now a water-logged sun is up over the horizon, barely dripping on the station platform outside the village. This used to be a busy place, transactions of travel, of love, comings and goings. Not this morning though. Not for many mornings. Love left town long ago – the goings eventually outweighed the comings – and nobody’s sweetheart was returning with flowers on these trains.
The sound of shoes makes me start. As I turn I’m suddenly, acutely aware of the behaviour of every single hair on my body. Every one of them is singing. Singing in the rain. Voices, the taste of birdshit. And there you are…