It’s a tee. It’s a dress. It’s the new Graphic T-shirt Dress.

Waiting for my train

The train had just passed. It had been here a moment ago.

The sounds of the tracks with their shiny silvery noise had cracked through my ears only a heartbeat before. But now that has gone. All that is left is this pocket of honesty and a shivery shaking wind.

The trees trembled their leaves and the plastic wrap from the chips had scuttled underneath the bench. I was thinking to myself that if you simply walked into this moment, this one and this one alone, you would not know that the train had passed. You would not have been aware of the block of light, refractions and people’s busyness, the squeals of metal being huffled to their next destination. All you would see is the delicious shaking and feel the wind in your hair.

I had sat and watched the train pass.

My ankles were crossed, and I could see my shoes reflected in window, window, door, window, window, door. My bag was on my lap. In the time it took me to look up and see my crossed ankles repeatedly move away and closer to me, their reflection bending with the light, the train had passed. On and away. I was left with the big handful of silence which washed in after the noise, filling the cracks like water.

So I sat in the moment, in the pocket, the pocket that followed the train.

The sound had disappeared along with the taillights of the disappearing carriage. Inside the pocket I sat with my head high and eye bright. I felt sharp and alert, birdlike on the platform with my hands gripping the bag on my lap. I was cocked. Glancing about me I could see people gathered in their dull waiting state, and immediately in that pocket I could see them for what they were, shaped by their journeys and trevails. The pocket gave me a chance to unwrap them, and the moment of honesty that followed the train washed over them like satin.

There was the older woman who smelt of loneliness, a confused garbled scent which reminded me of onions. She was rubbing her knuckles and thinking only of her dog. She did not look at me when I glanced over her.

The two twin schoolgirl sisters who were casually pulling at their hair to artfully arrange it. In the pocket of honesty they froze for an instant. In that sharp light, in the pocket, I could see the fraction of loathing of one sister for another. It was a tangled hatred, tripped up tightly with love. The smooth arcs of their brows, unlined, held secret furrows and future arguments.

There was the man who sat with his legs wide, his patent leather shoes buffed. I saw through his vacant stare and into the wire of the headphones he wore. I knew that the wires carried no music, no words. All he had was the voices in his head, an echoing rant of displeasure and disappointment. This would be all that he needed before he reached his destination. They would fuel him on.

I was drunk on the moment, the pocket of air that burgeoned around me helping me to see what we are and were. I shook my head fast to drink in the truth before the pushing rush of reality washed in over me once again, restoring the world again.

The pocket moved on and I waited for my train.

Waiting for my train


Joined August 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

I like travelling.

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