Between Reality and Fiction

A breeze, soothing but not welcomed, disturbs the world. It is my own world, where I imagine all who I could never be. Simple thoughts, then daydreams – reality is fierce. Its unavoidable purpose is to greet me gently and always against my will. This time it is slowing tires and chains and smoke returning to the intricate city life, because in front of me stands a strain.

The door opens, my cue to enter. I do, without hesitation. I waste a paycheck on a ride I might enjoy, so I think better than to call it a waste. My feet and their proud white sneakers hit the ground, and I prefer this to weeds between concrete. The door shuts; I am alone. I am alone, aside from a scattered crowd of passengers. But them being strangers, and me being a stranger, I decide I am by myself. 

The closest seat calls out to me, for I seek to find comfort in my imagination rather than dwell on my disappointment. A wondering mind should just as much accompany a destination-less journey. At some point during this futile moment, my chin relaxes into my hand, elbow resting on a window’s rim. And some moment after, I understand: the fields I am passing, of grazing cows and much less green trees, and of a sky as dull can be, not one satisfies my expectations. Without reason, I surrender to my cynical self again. I could go on, humiliating the Earth for all its flaws. From this itching chair to the corrupt politicians ruling our lands, where those considered poor are pitied, and where precious rights have turned into privileges of the wealthy.

So I do.

Why is it, that only in my mind I stir up images so flawless? Where fields are much less hollow, where cows are horses, where twigs sprout apples, and where it does not reek of smoke and mold.

Then I remember that this is not going to be the most special day of my life.

Long ago, and without conviction, I had read a book about a distant settlement. The story remains boring in my head, of tedious writing for historical fiction fanatics, and I am certainly not one. But before I looked up from the pages, a passage describing a place North of Amsterdam had found its home in my eyes. It was the Town of Swynford, where supposedly a mighty and prosperous botanist had passed. Not that I cared to recall his name. Still, the written word about a simple coffee shop captivated me. I wanted to visit the only place on Earth where you could hitch a bike, trailing down lakes and rocky roads under the amicable clouds, all while admiring mountaintops. The only place on Earth with a satisfying, filling pavement: the thriving plant enjoying the best of the wind, the water, and the sun from the center of my pupils.

Few city trees dangle in the wind; shops vary by style. Each holds those familiar brick walls, pointed roofs, and families taking a stroll like every day is a Sunday. Meters ahead, rolling hills quite lonely in appearance greet you with respect. You desire to share with them your sorrow and delight, and you do so with a smile. They absorb your gloom and then bloom flowers in the spring. And you, even during the dead of winter, lock their loneliness in a place neither you nor they have to experience again. Then, retreat those steps and it will make a difference, as suddenly this type of vintage place comes to life, with low clouds and soothing winds and a shining star in the sky that appears not often, but enough for you to appreciate its warmth each time.

Inhabitants of the Town of Swynford claim it a neat place, an even better one if you consider it your home! Maybe a tad too chilly for others, beautiful nevertheless, on a sizable mountain, so what's not to like?

Nothing.

And little did I know, that's what would pain me the most.

Finally, I found the time and money to afford traveling. Not for long, but long enough to escape those neighborhood blocks I had spent all my life in. Where Friday news is always another local win and Sundays are spent agonizing about the rent due Mondays. Occasionally, some big, bold letters sneak their way in, cautioning us of another flood. And I could never forget the traffic, which finds its way around to even the most patient of drivers.

"One ticket to the Town of Swynford in Amsterdam please, near the Hortus Botanicus," I told the cashier. "The cheapest you have, I'll wait if I have to."

Bethany — I identified the lady, a name tag agreeing with me.

What would have been a casual exchange of money was now an unpleasant situation. Well, for me at least. A misfortune is not a misfortune to all. She was simply an over-friendly employee with her lips hooked into a half-moon, and if she did not live up to it, she'd merely be talked about during a dinner of gossip and complaints.

Feeling for a paper, her fingers hovered over tiny print.

"Ma'am, there is no Town of Swynford. Would you like me to purchase you a ticket to the botanic garden instead?"

And just like that, at the young age of twenty-three, I realized I was never going to even breathe the same air as the Town of Swynford.

"Fine, just give me any damn ticket!" My harsh voice sought a timid expression from Bethany, her hands searching away.

I shouldn't have blamed her, I thought, so my mumble of gratitude made up for it all.

I should've blamed the author instead, I knew, gripping my baggage and seeking a station number. The writer who had stirred my emotions too much, intrigued me to care for such a negligible detail. They are the one at fault. I was unaccepting of my ignorance, of me treating fiction as any more than what it was — fantasy. Of course, I should've known, a town with people so welcoming, where an intruder never willed his ill intentions could not exist. No place on Earth could live up to the most diverse fields, life in all corners, and happy, happy citizens. There could never be a place in the flat Netherlands sustaining mountains so high as to touch the clouds.

To explore the Town of Swynford was my rushed teenage wish, with consequences. I had been reckless, thinking that me being a reader was the same as being a writer. Today, the Town of Swynford, the plant that found its home in my eyes, had a decent chance of showering itself in my salty tears, and they were not happy tears.

So, a muse and lengthy sigh later, here I am, looking at insignificant things. I will never remember these instances existing inside the frame of a train's window as much as I will the brilliant imagination of the Town of Swynford.

But what I do see is nature. Sometimes, I notice a new kind of vegetable or fruit harvested on a farm. There is even a donkey, which I deem not far from a horse. I stare at it and blink, until it is no more than a dot lost in vain.

I do not anticipate what followed. The train passes through a tunnel, and is it a lengthy one or not, I am unaware. In the rendered reflection, I see my own. Darkness replaces what once was grey, but I remain.

As does the old man suddenly behind me, staring with his foreign gaze into the window where he catches my eye. They are the brightest pair of eyes on the train, until the sky hits through the glass again and everything exists with a similar presence.

My head turns swiftly, meeting the truest of his gaze. He is not particularly close, but close enough to birth a discomfort at the pit of my stomach. I take in his sullen lashes, then his bush of greying hair down to a polished pair of brown dress shoes. He was wearing an eccentric suit, an emerald green engulfing him whole.

He is rich, I conclude. Rich people dress in the most hideous of ways and still think themselves fashionable.

What pains me most is the metallic cane swaying by his hip, held tight. I am not fond of his expression, unfazed. It carries no words.

Why, but why did he choose this seat of them all? This is a cheap seat, and I'd have bet my paycheck that the train manager would not think twice about selling him a first-class ticket for a little extra money.

"Excuse me, sir, there are empty seats everywhere. Can't you see we are in the middle of an empty train?" I shakily mention, the phrases escaping my mouth much softer than I intend.

The way he panics, searching for the origins of my voice, makes sense to me. I understand who he really is: a blind man on a helpless trip to who knows where. Amsterdam, probably.

"Oh, sorry," he chuckles. The wrinkles bordering his brows cut deeper. "I lost my vision years back."

But not your hearing, it seems. At least not entirely.

"That's alright," I say, calm again. "You probably wake up afraid, unable to see what the world brags about."

I cannot avoid my curiosity. He is incapable of witnessing all I complain about, and he seems sophisticated enough to not take me seriously.

But I learned to respect elders. They know of things I do not.

"Then again, you probably have a lot more experience in this world than I do."

His shoulders ease and his hands, which carry a past I'd never truly unravel, loosen at his cane.

"Life's got just as many horrors I'm avoiding. Most days are terrible days... for many people," without knowing, he stared for a second time into my younger eyes. "Might as well enjoy."

Then, he smiled.

This man is more than the Town of Swynford would ever be; he is the embodiment of literal. Imperfect and everything, for life is never intended to be beautiful. It is really just shedding trees and rotten fruits. Countless of wasted talent and constraints so far from fair. It holds a grim fate all of us humans meet and is filled with tragic stories books can never be enough to mold.

He is the stranger I know.

Whatever my aim for today had been, this journey is the rare case of a hundred dollar bill. I was on a quest for a thousand worth in money; instead, I discovered a lucky alternative of much less, sincerely valuable.

"Hmm," I don’t bother returning the smile.

He would never know. And he doesn't have to, “It’s not all the terrible, you know.”