A lady in a train

A lady in a train

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Baby, it is time to sleep.

It is the time to hide from rushing Melbourne hours.

It is the time to forget and shed the long looks of your ugly boss, to escape from the nagging and pestering red-faces in your workplace.

It is the time to dream a small dream, a dream which is too hard to get at other times and places. It doesn』t matter what kind of dreams you will have, either about a wild giggle or a childish whine at your girlhood, or about an excitement or a disappointment from a dating with your idol at university, or about the delicious Chinese food you had, some years back in China, with your intimate friends, workmates, or mum and dad, sisters and brothers; or you are simply right in a dream of dozing off a difficult and lengthy math class at high school.

It is solely this period of time, between when you get on and off the famous Yarra tram, that you are becoming wholly yourself, showing off your soulful, remarkable existence.

No noise from earthly creatures should bother you, no worries of what to eat at a dinner, for him and for her or for her and for him or singly for yourself, no concerns whether the brand of your handbag is LoVe or HaTe, no awareness whether your feet are bare without socks, or covered with quilts, upon a soft mattress or just on a vacant seat.

There is no buzzing mosquito that will annoy you and bite you in the closed and comfortable and airy chamber. The rambling sound of railing is but a breeze to you, like a monotonous humming rhythm of a mother lulling a baby into a sleep.

You are alone yourself, on your own back and head.

You are nodding up and down, against the window glass; but I don』t have to worry much about you, for you seem to do this merely for a fun, a fun you manage methodically well, in a dream of course, with only a faint and ignorable possibility of damaging your professional spectacles.

I am looking at you, but my look weights nothing on your sleepy motionless ponytail, even less on your marvelous red-knot of hair rubber.

My speculation and curiosity about you will be lost once you wake yourself up into the Yarra society; and surely it will still be a daytime, and the sky will still be bright and high, when you, no matter how reluctantly and resentfully, have to put an end of the sleep and open your weary eyes.

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Note: Yarra is the name of river in Melbourne, Australia.