Trainwrite

10:01pm. Train home. Remember my desire to write a poem.

On my phone, I open my diary. Last week was bad but this week better.

I want to stare wistfully out into the darkness beyond the train window, but instead meet my own distorted reflection. I have already related my week to my friends and mother, why bother to write?

Talking with others as the relevant form of diary writing. What is expression without someone to express to?

I suppose I am relating to my future self

Punctuate. Freedom of a black screen, white letters appearing in time with the movements of my thumbs. My skin's touch.

I have discovered that I know nothing at all. I thought I owned him, completely, intuitively understood what made him tick, more than he himself could fathom. Now, when I look in the mirror I only see light reflected off the irregular surface of a fleshy structure. 

Memory interjects. When the stranger casually started talking to me (as we unlocked our bikes), I replied as if we were continuing an old conversation. He asked if I just saw the same movie in the cinema, I confirmed, he offered a concise review, I nodded and offered additional comments. As I finally managed to arrange my bag and bike, I looked up and was momentarily surprised by the stranger's disordered appearance. Hair in all directions, face somewhat scrawny. The eye that met my dominant one glinted with curiosity, or desparation. I enjoyed the awkward pause. He was clearly ready to leave but perhaps did not want to.

Intruding thought. First time I notice the word 'stranger'. Stranger than what? Than my self? 

Perhaps this makes us tick. I am unfathomable, but the other is even more so. The other like an illuminating mirror. Mirror refracting my appearance, scattering my expression in all ten directions.

Time to disembark