Face In The Window

Narcissist that I sometimes am, I wonder about the silent watchers.

For instance, you, in Perth. Hi. O/"

And other than Lotsachi and Mint Chutney, who are those checking in from the US? Ditto those in the UK, other than Jay, Bertha and Lady V.

Then there're those in Malaysia.

No matter. Whoever you are, I'm flattered by the repeat visits and the link, as the case may be. Feel free to remain anonymous though, this isn't meant to be a smoke-'em-out, line-'em-up exercise.

Those who are aware of, and frequent PPS might notice that I don't ping. I no longer include my URL when I comment at other blogs. And my Blogger profile doesn't display the address either.

I can’t quite articulate why I've chosen not to "publicise", other than to say that one reason is the very elitist desire to be audience selective. It would be a lie though, to say that a single-digit, or worse, zero-reading, comment box doesn't make me feel all needy and desperate at times. Do I crumple into a whimpering heap of thumb-sucking self-doubt when I see the elusive adoration in other people's comment boxes? Heh. Sometimes.

I’ve been told that certain kinds of posts appeal to different readers. Some like the funny ones. Some like the more personal, emo ones. Most probably don’t like the take-your-rose-tinted-helmet-off-and-smell-the-cowpats ones.

There are so many ways I could boost the readership of this site. But then I’d be consciously writing for an audience. Then again, if I really just want to write for myself, why even put it online? Yet most of these posts are merely monologue, inviting no engagement from the reader.

A bundle of conflicting thoughts, rationales and points of view.

Much like the myriad trains of thought that pass through the stations of my writing. The freedom to configure & re-configure the modes of delivery pleases me greatly.

I amuse myself to think that ever so often, a fantastical, charm bracelet of carriages squeal by in a cacophonic, burlesque boof.

The conventional multi-car, passenger bullet with slightly tatty interiors and monotonous lady-inside-the-speaker announcing each station is a regular.

In the darkest of times, from the bowels of the night comes a streak of midnight. Drifting silently past with its cargo of nightmares and hollow whispers.

On occasion, a carriage tiptoes by, no means of propulsion evident. Only a hint of secret, tiny toes.

A man in flowing saffron robes, with eyes the size of submarines, urges his recalcitrant camel along the tracks each time the moon stumbles on its axis.

A spotted cow and a tiny pink pig in a beloved ballgown trot by every now and then.


People choose; get on, get off.

Some just stand and watch. Waiting. As the platforms start to move away, those anonymous faces stand out even as they fade. Rare, and all the sweeter, are those most fleeting of moments, when eyes on the inside and out meet. The intensity of recognition somehow makes you hear each second inside your ears. From the periphery of thought, you feel the hearbeat. Or beats?

And then it’s the next moment. Another train, another thought. No time to gather the indescribable something that floats away with the last stirring of dust on the empty track.

I like watching the trains that pull out from the bays of my imagination, mind and heart. However irregularly. However bizarre. However familiar. It shouldn’t matter if no one else does, or if the platforms are empty for miles. The tracks are there. I get to play stationmaster. It amuses me.

I also like when people ooh and ahh at my trainset. It's nice when you decide to stop and play. Sometimes it gets lonely playing by myself.


Strangely, in writing this, I’ve reminded myself that lonely as it can admittedly be, there is much solace in solitude. I can’t explain, like many other things. It just is.

Anyway. To those who do stop to play, thank you. As for those who stand on the platform and glimpse the face in the passing window, I can but smile at the possibility of that fleeting second. It matters, even if you’re just standing on that platform, watching the trains go by.