The Two Journeyers

When I call you to mind, I see you with your back to all the others, waving with your right hand to someone out there, ahead of you even, someone who barely pauses to acknowledge your gesture of greeting, has already turned and moved quickly upward, out of sight and hearing. Was it a Man of Desire, like Rene Char? Or perhaps a Woman of Singular Talent? Could it have been an Angel, intent upon a Mission of his own devising? Those of us who wait in the shadow of these events will never know. Even you are puzzled, but you don't feel my unrest. What's the use? It would only compromise your freedom. You turn around, and for the first time I see your face. Our eyes lock for a moment of recognition in which I feel more than your regard. The moment passes, other moments crowd in its place, and the ordinary business of a train platform resumes. People play it safe with small talk and laughter. I adjust the weight of the things I am carrying. Should I, like you and that other journeyer, discard everything but my compass and periplus? Leave it all behind for someone else in desperate need? I aspire to live like you beyond need, in a condition almost weightless, subject to winds and tides of my own devising, a master of nothing less than liberty of spirit... I have committed all of these thoughts to writing, but everything I write vanishes as if it were written in invisible ink. My memory is beginning to fail me, too. I was once the Homer of my generation, now I am like his Penelope, witnessing everything I do in time unravel daily before it can enter eternity. Oh, could I join my fate to yours all would be well: your recognition just now conveyed no invitation. Should I instead pursue that other journeyer? The one who blends reality and fantasy into a seamless whole. Is there time enough to dither, test options, seek out the Hand of Fate? Or must I hasten even now, because we are approaching the precincts of the temple, and the ceremony of transfiguration has already begun?