The Space

Lonely withholding … waiting … waiting … waiting … for the train’s arrival.

She stops. 

Where are you headed?

A place between the lines. A place where there is neither black nor white, where there is no expectation or ceiling. 

There is no taxation for your feelings, no debts for your doubts, no payments for your hardships, no bleeding for your losses. 

You think, there is always withdrawal. Regardless of logic, there always needs to be a humour-ous balance. Although, rarely is anyone laughing. 

Where am I?

The in-between you tell yourself. Am I telling myself? The voice of opposition or agreement, finds me once again. 

The margin of leeway grows, welcoming you inward. Again, where am I? Again, which is asking this apropos question?

The train makes its ascended decent into the upward downward realm of middle ground. There is safety in surrender, although, pained by the idea of letting an innate arrival occur.

I am here. 

 

I am the space.