The journey

There has been few times in my life where I have been able to travel on my own; every journey has been shared in the company of a familiar other. Upon telling those who would actually care about my trip to here, many responded with “maybe I can come visit you during the weekend”.

            Although I have always been a “the more, the merrier” kind of person, this experience was one that I wanted to share with myself and myself only. Secretly I had been waiting in great anticipation to catch a four and a half hour train ride and then another two and a half hour bus ride all on my own. There’s something romantic and exciting about a day’s in solitude.

            So on early Wednesday morning, I woke in darkness, and prepared myself in silence so as to not to wake up the house. Even though I am now in my mid twenties, my mother wants to safely see me off at Southern Cross Station. She drives us both through the slowly waking city, lecturing my adult self about taking precautions (ones that a mother would give her child on their first day of school), and after a very brief debate about parking locations, she pulls into the carpark on Spencer Street, and we begin the walk to my destined platform.

            Much has changed since I last travelled on a Vline train; including who is allowed onto the platform and who is not. I am allowed, but my mother is not. So she kisses me goodbye, and hugs me tightly, and tells me to call if anything happens. We part at the barriers, where she begins to walk parallel to me from the other side of the station. She smiles and waves happily to me. I smile and wave back.

            I begin to board the first class carriage to my designated seat, where on multiple times during the trip I try to sneak in some sleep, or do some brief reading. But I cannot do either. My body is tired, and so is my mind. So I let them rest for the next seven hours instead.