The Edge of Night

To you. I remember standing on a platform, the night I arrived at an unfamiliar station. The streetlamps stretched long across the wet asphalt. My shadow must have been one of them, but it overlapped with someone else's and I couldn't tell where it began or ended. What I saw that night is still vivid. A long bench in the square outside the station, plane trees swaying in the wind, the blinking lights of buildings far off. Everything was new to me, yet none of it felt strange. If anything, it felt like a scene from a dream long ago. Maybe travel is a way of setting familiarity aside for a while. Standing somewhere unfamiliar, I become unfamiliar too, and sometimes that strangeness is a comfort. A moment when something as indistinct as a shadow feels more real than anything. Since that night, I sometimes think I'd like to go back to that platform. But not exactly that place. Somewhere near the edge of what I felt then. I wonder if I could find it again, that border.