Write when you mean it, write out your lies, write when you are laughing, write when you cry.


Sitting at the train station with a plaster on one leg.

Wondering if this is what it’s like to be old.

A bit depressing not being able to do the things you used to do.

Life travels slower

Time never passes

Life passes outside too quickly for your own rhythm

What you can reach with your mind and heart, your legs don’t respond to, and you must leave it for the next time. Or the next life.

And things don’t seem to be so important any more, seeing as you still go on living. Nothing really does happen too terrible if you missed that so exciting party, or you can’t travel on a week-end. All those exciting plans that were only so in your imagination, now cease to exist. So you concentrate on your present. No plans for the future.

Just step by step,

minute step by step.

Tiny step, one at a time.

And each step becomes huge

Takes all the significance

It’s all there is really, that step.

The one you are taking now.

The one you are about to take.

And the long future doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

What I can do when I am cured?

Has no importance now

Only to be cured

So stay with me now

Don’t miss a beat.

I am cold

Need sunshine

Train stopped

Waiting for the next

Will it come?

Not if this one doesn’t move on.

So close your doors present train

Fix your problem

Let it be

I’m getting the next train

Where I’ll be warm and moving.

But nothing moves. Nothing’s happening


What to do in an out-of-time moment?

A train going nowhere

A train stopped

Blocking the way

Who is to fix the present?


Silvia Munton

June 2015

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