More than me

A few times when I'm on the train,
here between places,
I feel that I'm more.
More than this little body and this little mind.
More than all this wrapped up in winter clothes.
More than work, family, friends and desires.
More than the words that I've written and the words I've yet to write.
More than me.
It is like some faint memory.

The sun shines softly through the clouds,
in through the windows and into me.
The train rolls monotonously along the tracks.

What if I'm also the sun, the light in me, the breath and the air outside?
The bird flying high?
The last snowflake falling from the sky?
The snow covering everything and everything covered by snow?
The sound of the river, spring that is already calling?
The smell of the soil and the grass that will grow?
The dandelion that will spring out in yellow between green grass?

What if I'm also the pink in the horizon,
the endless horizon?
The quiet fjord in the evening?
The fisherman in a boat?
The boat,
and the fish?

What if I'm also the other passengers that I'm sitting amidst?
The older man who is reading the paper, the young boy pestering him?
The dictator and the flower seller in the latest revolution?
The asylum seeker sent back and the police accompanying her?
Those who win and those who loose?
All that is in the paper and all that is not?

It darkens outside.
In between is the glass and a reflection.
A transparent, fragile glass
- there I see myself as well,
together with the older man and the young boy.
For a moment, eye contact, and we smile.

Then I'm free.
Then all my worries are gone.
What if I'm all this?
I can be joyful and I can rest,
sitting on the train, here between places.