Dreams of bag and box

or, boarding the train of worry

Way back in some other year, I figured this Substack was going to be a place where I’d simply ramble off my dreams into some sort of vague attempts at fiction, using them as self-prompting tools. Dreams were a semi-regular feature in the first few months. I even made a specific section for them, over here.

But then I stopped dreaming. Entirely. The mornings would arrive and all I’d have was the shape of my body pressed into the mattress, a sweaty missive informing me an evening had transpired. I’m not sure what caused this cessation. Something seasonal? My age? An uptick in solar flares? Perhaps it was the tropical disease I picked up whilst hiking in—

—oh, come now, none of that’s true. I haven’t stopped dreaming. The dreams have just become too dark, too laced with fear and death and rife with the strange tinge of elsewhere that questions the reality we pretend to see and feel. Scenes of dying in a plane crash, being drowned under a tidal wave, the final terror of a push from a cliff or the abduction by a UFO whose sleek grey wings whisper of nothing as it glides and lands and—oh yes, here it is!—a long wax-like finger wraps itself around my neck.

You don’t want to hear about those¹.

I’ve also not been as robust in recording these dreams. Too many other things to do as the creative seed flits ephemeral before first light. Things like freaking out over what I’m going to write this week—because, seriously, how does a new week roll around so quickly?

It was July when the last dream spilt upon these pages. It was of jugs and jars. I won’t link it. Something terrible will happen if I do². So yeah I’m wasting words here, filling up the page because I don’t know how much I’m going to fill below when I actually type out about a dream from two nights ago. It was about a train. A train whose letters deserve capital brilliance, because somehow A TRAIN¡ even looks like a train, choo-choo’ing along the page, fumes of anxiety chugging from its smokestack.

This won’t be my usual style³, but … here goes.

(P.S. this will be weird.

K thnx bye.)

Yes, yes, look at them, look at them looking, laughing and yelling “He’s lost his bag!” (Credit: Substack image generator)

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The train I want is the one that’s just arrived, to the left on the platform where for some reason a different train stands. Never mind, though. I’ll jog to that one, the one I know I want, because that’s what I need to do. And I’m getting on it now, inside the doors, but I can’t see the sign or the little strip of info that displays where it’s going, the one with the stops that scroll by. But that’s fine, this is the right train. And I’m on it now, but gosh it’s busy, so very busy, and should this train be so busy?

Melbourne to Perth, that’s the one, isn’t it? The one I want, the one that also goes to where I’m going? Strange, though, that a train would go to Ubud. Perth is closer to Bali, so it makes sense to fly from there, so that’s fine then, it’s going to both, that must be where all these people are going, all this business with all these people. And where will I sit? Just here, right by this man? I’ll sit here then, shall I? Yes, OK, I’ll do that, near all this luggage, these bags and boxes and people. So much luggage, people commuting with these bags. I’ll pop my rucksack here, along with the sleeping bag I’ve brought; it’s nice and small and compact, wrapped up all tight and I’ll loop it around my bag to keep it safe on this wide seat.

It is the right train, though, isn’t it? No matter, I’m sure it is, and I’ll know by the first station. I could ask, I suppose, but we’re moving now, and there’s no point, we’re moving and soon I’ll know, but I really should be able to see the little strip of scrolling text. No matter, I can get a drink from the carriage with the drinks, and my ticket allows that, doesn’t it? I’ll get up and go, and I’m in the little carriage now. But I left my bag; should I go back? This clinking bottle has something clear and fizzy, the yellow label wrapped around the glass that's now in my hand. That’ll do, yes? And it’s free, isn’t it? Courtesy of the ticket that’s in my bag. Should I have brought that with me in here? No matter. They can check that later, from my seat.

From my seat?

But now where is my seat? Which way was it? I’m in another carriage now, so is it this way, the way with all these people, and was it so crowded before? Nevermind, here’s my seat, except where’s my bag? Did I take it with me and put it down or was it here and why are those people laughing? Are they laughing at me, pointing at me, the man without his bag, the only man without luggage on a train so full of luggage?

They are laughing, all as I sit and look, because it’s here, isn't it? Someone wouldn’t steal my bag. Would they? But I have my phone and there’s enough battery so that’s OK, I can call Jo and let her know, but surely my bag is here, it's here somewhere. And I’m standing and asking now, asking, Did you take my bag? and they all reply, with a snigger, What bag? and they’re all looking now, so I say, My bag, the one I brought, but they sit and proclaim nothing, and a man is speaking, saying, You make a case for the case, but where is the case? And what can I say to that, as I have no case, my case is gone, so I walk further, I’m pacing, but it’s OK I still have my phone and I’m looking at it and—no, please no—the battery is red, almost out, and the charger is in my bag, the bag I don’t have, and I’ll need to have it to charge this phone and how will I call if I don’t?

And yet the people still laugh, the ones who have my bag. Do they have my bag? What bag? It’ll be there somewhere, somewhere amongst all this luggage.

And look! There’s a table.

I sit down, plug my passport in to charge.

1. I’m aware that some of you probably want to hear about those.

2. This nonsense is what happens when I write relaxed and upon the couch, balcony doors open with the summer air and the Australian Open fuelling the background, my mind lamenting that this time last year I was doing exactly the same thing.

3. Like I have a style.