Dying Of Profundity

The Return from Paris

Just think –

I should be at work,

At my desk,

Typing, hating.

But I’m here,

On this quiet train,

Speeding across France.

Sunny fields,

Deserted stations in little towns.

Chickens and ducks and beehives.

If I hadn’t decided

To take these couple of days off,

I wouldn’t be sitting here.

This carriage would be even emptier,

Even quieter.

Tomorrow this train will speed across France again,

But I won’t be on it.

Just think –

I don’t know a single person in this whole country.

Just think –

If I hadn’t looked out of that window at that moment,

I wouldn’t have seen

That heron, that rainbow, that lorry.

Just think –

Every single person’s life experience is unique.

No-one lives exactly the same life as someone else.

Everyone’s train journey is unique,

Because of what only they

Saw and felt and thought and dreamed and remembered.

Just think –

Every French house I see represents someone else’s life,

A life that could’ve been mine.

Just think –

I’ll never go in that house,

Never meet the person who lives there,

Never know who painted that wall.

Just think –

The person who sits in this seat tomorrow could be my best, unknown friend,

My true love.

They may even think these thoughts.

These thoughts might have been thought in this seat

Dozens of times

By profound people who don’t know each other.

Just think –

I may never give this seat or these thoughts another thought,

Ever again!


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