Phil and Eric on their way

 Like I said these two had left the yellow trainstation.
When I say trainstation there were no real trains. It was the ruin of an old trainstation.
From a time that never was here in this place that is not supposed to exist. But it does.
They headed off after years and years of deliberating in this silly little railway shack.
I can only guess they followed the rail lines.

There used to be town here too.
When I had my vision back in 2022 I saw my father cross the town.
There were other souls there, traffic and houses. A sense of the familiar.
He had a rucksack and crossed the railway line out of town.
He didn't talk to anyone or stop for anything. It was like he was pulled to the yellow shack.
The one on the edge of this town that no longer exists. Weeds and the most aggressive seedlings have taken it over. Obscuring any sign of the once quaint village.

Old man Eric started getting his hair back. His leg had grown back. But my father was sill impatient.
I saw them only in dream, I could not join them, I was flung into some bigger spiritual scandal. probably because something I wrote.
But I saw them and followed their journey
The trees became shrubs and shrubs just tall weeds.
The seedheads on the weeds were incredible fat. it suddenly made sense that the countryside was riddled with it.
Those seed heads slapped against their cordoroy jeans in places where the plant had embedded itself closer to the tracks.

My grandfather grinned. he grinned a grin that could grace his face for an hour, as if an epiphany had rippled out of him. But there was actually no great insight or idea whatsoever. The man was just happy to have the limited heat of the fake sun and the company of my father walking beside him.

School in the ruins

 The class was outdoors because all of the structures were destroyed.
The woman teaching us was a warm bubbly 42 year old pale skinned brunnete.
She would cut or mix something on the big table infront of the class.
And her curly brown hair would kick up to and fro.

I thought she was very smart and charismatic.
The idiots sitting next to me distracted me from her class.
But i paid attention evenso.
After the class she invited me to speak to her.
I was hardly 19 years old and I was nervous in her presence.
Of course I wouldn't admit that to anyone.

She invited me to sit in the front row the next day.
She would make room for me.
I thanked her.
Then her younger and even more beautiful women friends came.
They would go cross country to the next village over to press grapes.
Hopefully they would bring some wine back from last years squeeze.

Exits, aggression and an empty shop

 I entered the shop carefully because it was also an alley away from the stinking church ruins. I thought ther might be someone there to mug me. Something almost as bad was waiting in there.
I must have looked a mess because the man's face became harsh and an accusatory frown formed on his face. He pulled a dagger and locked eyes with me.
"I don't want anything from you, I am just passing through your shop to get out of the courtyard, the barbarians have brought down the walls and gates. There is no other exit." I pleaded with the man.

"Don't I know it." The man said gritting his teeth.
Looked like he really thought I might try to rob him. He held the culter out from his body as if it was a threat not just to me but to his own body.
I put my palms up in a gesture of non aggression. It made no difference, the man followed me closely until I had left his shop. 

The desperate clenched face was still as aggressive and tight as it had been when I entered the shop.
As I turned back to look at the man and tell him that obviously he hadn't needed to be so aggressive, it struck me that his shop was absolutely empty.
Everything was already stolen.
The defensiveness had become his default response.

Carinae church

 The bombed out church had been converted to a shelter for old fat sixty and seventy year olds.
Some of them in reasonable health, others lepers who could hardly rise form the pew.
They lay there in the church chamber the entire eastern wall missing.
Letting the sun light up the place up as there was no candles.
I saw one of the younger of the lot unsuccessfully attempt to turn, cursing under his heaves.

Infact, Most of the old men were squirming having spent days lying on the pews.
Others had started up long conversations mostly nostalgic in nature.
The church might still collapse I worried as I stood on the outside, looking in.
A begger looked up from his sitting place on the street and told me he knew what I was thinking.
"You think the whole building will collapse, don't you?"

I said nothing to the begger as his face showed sadistic amusement.
Instead I looked on as another overweight man adjusted himself on the pew.
His skin blotchy and yellow his face contorted in pain.
The day was hot, there were no one to fan them anymore, and absolutely no wind.
So the lot of them lay in their states pouring with sweat.

Onlookers wouldn't stay long. The stench put them off it.
In one corner facing each other two of the oldest sat at a small table.
They were playing Ludus a perfect line of sun lighting up their board.
Satisfaction on their faces, they were not at all bothered by their surroundings.
I desperately wanted to reach out to know their secret.
But they were too entrenched in their game.

Solitude is nurture

 I stumbled upon the yellow trainstation of purgatory.
My Grandfather and father took a train from here.
Severing an entire leg
Severing a sanity

It must be two centuries since they painted these panels
Seems fresh to me
Somewhere corner of my eye a fox
No a ghost, no the breeze

And no train to come for another decade of these years
The solitude seems like nurture
This lonliness seems to sustain the hungry nothings that make up me
The millenia behind the veil and where are all the other souls?

I guess they all paired up and danced their way to heaven
All I have is this old yellow train station
My grandfather's appartion pops by to roll himself a cigarette
To eat a sweet and state the obvious

There's no hope for me but take a drag and chew the sugar
I check my pack and everything i need is lacking
I'd stick it out on these rusty tracks
In the fake sun

Out of the corner of my eye a wolf
No a ghost of myself, looking back blaming
This solitude seems like nurture
The minds stirrs inside my head as if it were a...
separate creature

Even in the dullness of purgatory where they built me up new
What has remained are these traumas and this burning sensation
That the lesser known truth of purgatory
eternity passes much slower here

Unlovable writer

 The Price of Becoming.
Why do still see nothing here?

That's why I almost laughed when you said:
You wanted someone to love you for you.

Where I'm from,
love always came with conditions.
Invisible contracts.
Outlined expectations.
You earned it or watched it disappear.

No one told me,
I could simply exist.
So I learned another language.
Journeyed the world alone.

Alone felt more real,
than conditional friends and family.

Achievement.
Performance who am I?
Seek applause, search spotlight.
Perfection no illusion as destructive.
Choreography that I criticize 

They dance imitating the fool I am!

A little desperate to grow,
A child.
Of becoming whatever earned another glance.

Hunger for recognition.
Why your attention feels
like water after years of drought.
Every compliment,
patches a sore but...
bleeding insists by morning.

I'm not more
than an empty shape,
Ghost on a yo-yo string,
rising with praise,
plunging with silence.

Mistaking encouragement
for good meaning.

You may hate me
because I seem impossible to love.

I was a child.

Some days I get that myself vibe.

Other days I'm just reflecting my style of ugly.

Producing weather

 The ball of fire lifts up from the snow
It grows despite the cold
the snow on the pines falls
Thumb over the fire

But the fireball doesn't go out
It just reformed and burned still
That fire is my heart
the snow is melting

the heart beats the veins obey
The cold strangles but no effect
The land is quiet bandits hide
Waiting for gossip and their graves

My heart is the fireball
The frozen sky doesn't injure it
Infact as it burns I'll make it rain