I am on a train to New York. The whistle echoes out into the cool still dark air and I watch the pre-dawn blur past my window. I am on a train to New York. It is almost journey's end. I feel the weight of this story on my insides. It isn't burdensome, but I feel it there. Pressing against my ribcage, beating against the silo of my heart, the words are ready to come out.
"Let us speak," they cry, "it is time."
"Not quite," I think, "it is not quite time for you yet, Story. We have a few more steps to walk." And I can feel that — this next moment. Sometimes in the writing of a narrative a storyteller reaches a point of resolution, at that exact moment is when some sort of chaos is introduced to the story. It is a catalyst. It moves the characters and plot forward.
I can not pretend to know or guess what the end of my journey may hold. I am only learning this. I always thought Time was my enemy. I feared her and what she would steal from me. Now I revel in her. I no longer look to her ancestors or her children. Resolution, hope, chaos, light, adventure, I welcome it all. I have learned to embrace this moment alone. Yesterday and tomorrow are not here, but today and this train and New York, they are present.
The words will have their time, today is New York's.