Upstairs in the bathroom, after I have dressed and left the laptop on the dining room table, I hear the lonesome call of the 4am and the tell-tale rumbling through the open window. I think I must have heard it coming in my sleep.
I woke up to hitch a ride like some drowsy hobo.
Once it starts rolling in my head, there really is no stopping it. There are no depots on this track. My thoughts fill the baggage car and I’ve got to unpack each one before I can get off this train.
There are a lot of suitcases.
But I’ve done this long enough to know that there is a finite number of them and eventually I will reach the last one. My mind will come to its destination, I will hop off the train, and return to elusive slumber.
I am not the only passenger. The people I think about sit in the seats like silent ghosts. I carry on conversations with them (though I am really talking to myself), but eventually we, namely the myriad parts of me, reach some sort of understanding.
I know the conductor well. It is he who I must trust with my baggage, whose gentle hand will take my ticket from me if I let him, who will point me to the sleeping car after I have released what I do not need to keep.
And I can slowly tumble from these worries into sleep.