Mind

The short handle of the train station’s door was cold to the touch. The day was warmer than normal, however the tall clock tower of the station left the main door in the shade. A few steps inside the station resulted in the light reflecting off of the clean floors and walls directly into my eyes. Even the light blue sky and fluffy clouds were obscured for a few moments. A shame, as these weren’t common in England.

Through squinting eyes, I found the sign for the platform I needed. I had come to meet somebody who would be getting off their train here, only they wouldn’t be expecting to see me. We’d become distant after I had been motivated to leave him in the middle of our efforts. He and I were writing the poetry book we’d been dreaming of for around three years. We were going to blow society’s mind with it; that’s what he kept telling himself when we were working away.

Around three years ago, I was attending a meeting of my local writing group. I say local, yet the journey still took me half an hour – I couldn’t arrange anything closer to home. This particular evening, the group was going to be discussing “Lyrical Ballads”, its impact on poetry today, and finally what the group would work to write next. For the few die-hard poets in the group, this was going to be the highlight of their weeks. For everybody else, we’d be lucky if we got a word in about any of the topics.

I’d been waiting in the meeting room for a few minutes before the first people arrived. Among them was a young man around my age, whose hair was perfectly neat and unaffected by his glasses. He took a seat next to me and took out his writing pad. I introduced myself, as I didn’t remember speaking to him before. He smiled, and told me his name was Samuel. I believe I joked about the relevance of that name to our meeting, but maybe I just pointed it out. I like to remember things more fondly than some.

After the meeting (in which I had been correct that nobody but the central people would have a say), Samuel told me that he had an idea to compile a book of poetry centred around the feelings of jealousy, greed and lust. He believed that by pointing out these central flaws in the human mind, he’d unite the separate sectors of society and bring people together. He was certain humans needed an issue to focus on to avoid becoming more divided. “Don’t you think that humanity will only achieve total world peace when we all have a common enemy from another world?”

I was unsure of his aim with this work, however once he’d shown me a couple of pieces he’d already written I was convinced that I would support him, perhaps even chip in with the writing. They were recent, too – he’d written the dates in the bottom right corner, and they were but weeks ago. With that, he told me where he would be working (a studio he’d rented that happened to be ten minutes from my home) and we left the meeting place.

For around six months, we would meet twice a week and discuss ideas for poetry. We wrote drafts for two poems, “Betrayed” and “Chasm”. Both were about Samuel’s past with a woman, yet he’d not been cheated on or used or anything. In fact, from the way he told it to me, she hadn’t done anything wrong at all. She had asked him to go out with her more often (dinners, films, the usual places) and he said it became irritating and “needy”. I hadn’t thought of him to be a socialite, however my estimations of his social skills dropped sharply upon hearing this. Whenever I pursued the subject, he shot me down with a sharp glance and refused to talk.

We’d travelled to another meeting and were leaving his car (this time about natural image and love in literature, something Samuel had already expressed a dislike for) when Samuel stopped in his tracks. A red-haired woman was entering the function room, and he seemed almost startled by her presence. He stepped back to his car, and started the engine. I held his door open and repeatedly asked why he was leaving. “She can’t be here right now, that’s not possible.”

I raised the subject of the woman when we next met. Samuel had been more anxious that morning, unable to even order drinks at the diner. He exhaled before responding to me (for perhaps the first time for a tough question). “We were close about five years ago. She was with my brother, however she left him and travelled to Australia volunteering.” Hard to imagine Samuel being close with anybody, yet I didn’t judge. I asked why she couldn’t have been at the meeting. “I don’t know what I was saying, I suppose I had a moment of insanity. I’ll be fine once we start writing. It’s what we need to do.” I never asked him again. I didn’t think I’d get anything else.

After a year and a half, we’d finished our first poem and had drafts for several more ready for people to see. I suggested sharing it with the writing group, which Samuel had stopped attending several months ago. In fact, he had stopped going anywhere after “Chasm” had been completed. His writing desk was covered in scribbled notes. The corners of his room were cluttered with dried pens and crumpled paper. I’d been bringing him summaries of the group’s discussions; I have strong doubts that he ever looked at them. I read through one of the papers (a draft for an untitled poem) and was on the last few lines when Samuel entered with a mug. He saw me reading and grabbed the paper from my hands. He yelled that he threw it for a reason, and I didn’t need to see it. I often think this moment was when I started to contemplate leaving Samuel; his tidy appearance from when we met was just a memory, and his mannerisms had become filled with anxiety and stress.

On the other hand, the red-haired woman seemed keen to integrate herself into our group. She managed to speak amongst the enthusiasts, and received all in the group with warm smiles and words. I even spoke with her sometimes, until we often ended up talking over drinks after the meetings. Her name was Lily, and she had a large interest in fantasy worlds and magical creatures in mythology and literature. Her bright blue eyes contrasted with her red hair, and her smooth voice meant I listened to her discuss the dullest topics with great joy. I’d forgotten about Samuel’s episode regarding her; I sometimes forgot about Samuel and his poetry book altogether.

I was travelling to Samuel’s studio when Lily called me. I pulled over and answered to discover that Lily wanted to meet up at a coffee shop. It would have killed me to turn her down, so I agreed to meet in an hour and drove quickly to the studio. Samuel had slept there that night, and perhaps that fuelled his enraged response to me asking to write later that day. “What could be more important than bringing the people together? We will blow society’s mind with this!” He grabbed a decorative inkwell and threw it against the wall, triggering my move to leave. As I jumped in my car, I saw a painting fly out of his window.

I told Lily about Samuel’s rage. She knew that I was working with him, however now I think about it she never seemed to recognise his name. She advised me to never go back there, or at least stop going for a while. “What if he throws his desk at you or something? You can’t help him alone, you need to get him out of that studio.” I still don’t think she was right; I was right to go see him that evening, at least in my eyes.

I slowly opened the door to the studio and a pen was scratching away. I called out for Samuel, assured him it was his friend, and got no response. I walked into the main room to see a dishevelled Samuel writing faster than I’d seen. When I saw bottles in the corner, it clicked in my mind. I had always thought he left for home when I called it a day, yet it seemed like he’d been living with this dark poetry in this cramped abode. I picked up a bottle to recycle it, noting the alcohol content of his drinks. I asked Samuel when he’d bought all this alcohol and (again) he didn’t answer. He handed me a creased sheet and told me to read the final stanza for him. Just like when we met, it was incredibly evocative and truly captured human greed in words. He was confident about this piece; he’d dated the poem in the corner.

Lily agreed when I showed it to her. She was so into it, she brought herself along to the studio next time I went. As I’ve stated, I’d forgotten about Samuel’s panic – that was two years ago by this point. She stepped into the studio and introduced herself to the dazed and exhausted Samuel (once I’d woken him). His eyes opened wide and he screamed as he fell into a crouched position. I asked Lily to leave for a moment as I held Samuel. After around five minutes, Samuel looked me in the eyes. “I’ve been so alone you know.”

That line stuck with me all week. Lily noticed I was troubled and took me to a music show she was attending with her friends. At that music show, I remembered how loving poetry could be. I remembered how it used to be before Samuel’s poetry. Finally, in a moment of drunken logic, I resolved to stop meeting with Samuel. Lily seemed much happier after I announced that to her.

I woke up with a dry mouth and pounding headache. I sat in my bed, Lily fast asleep next to me. I found my robe and went to find some water. As I poured out two glasses for myself and Lily, the silence was broken by a knock. On the other side of the door, a tired Samuel shoved a stack of papers into my arms. “I’ve cracked it, I swear to you. It’s so simple.”

He explained how he channelled his anxiety and rage into words. He claimed it had all come so easily; he felt he was at his poetic peak. His grin pierced my peripheral vision as I read what (to this day at least) I call the most confusing, esoteric piece I’ve ever read. I asked him what he intended to evoke with this work, and his grin shattered into a face of pure frustration. He snatched back his papers, yelled several unintelligible words at me before slamming my door. Lily was sat in bed wide-eyed, holding the duvet over her body, peeking out over it. I brought her the water and held her.

Months passed before I saw Samuel again. Lily had moved in, bringing a myriad of plants and colourful cushions. I grew attached to a certain flower, which was a lily (no surprise). She was arranging light pink cushions on the couch when Samuel called again. I opened the door and asked him why he was here. He opened his mouth to speak, however he stopped when Lily crossed the hallway carrying two coffees into the living room. He said I was blinded by love, and left. I turned to Lily after closing the door and she immediately told me to follow him. “You need to sort this out now. I can’t have a man coming and yelling at you every few months.”

Samuel was storming into his car when I opened his door. I asked him to talk to me. Samuel pushed me away and chastised me for leaving his studio with Lily when he had admitted his loneliness. He criticised my night at the music show over a night writing poetry. “You were never dedicated like I am. You don’t care about art.” He smiled a sly smile and I looked away. I simply stated that he was unstable and I couldn’t handle his work now. I told him how much worse his recent poetry had become, and how he’d lost sight of the end goal. Samuel spat and left in his car. Lily saw my hurt expression and comforted me.

That night I lay awake. I thought of my failures. Ones as small as being moments late for a meeting with Lily, followed up with big ones such as leaving Samuel alone again. I blamed myself for his insanity. Yet he was unstable before…right? Or did I imagine his panic attacks before then? Lily never mentioned a past with Samuel. She wasn’t the woman from his past. I had never asked who that woman was. It would have been an excuse for my actions.

A letter from Samuel five months later announces that he planned to leave for the United States. He would take a train to London and fly to the East Coast – he never stated where. I told Lily I was going to London to meet Samuel before he got to the airport. She refused to let me go alone, and we drove for hours to the capital. We were forced to leave in the small hours to catch Samuel. I left Lily in the car as I approached the station door. I was blinded by the light, which I hadn’t noticed until now.

I sat on the platform’s bench for an hour. I kicked stones, I paced, I must have read the emergency line information a thousand times. A train came past, and my eyes lit up. Businessmen bustled around me. Musicians carried their gear with them. Families left the station together. Samuel was nowhere to be seen. I remained for half an hour. All was quiet after the train left, and I was alone on the platform.

Lily’s steps broke the silence. She handed me Samuel’s letter, and pointed to the bottom right corner. I’d forgotten his habit of dating his written pieces. I looked closely and realisation hit me. “This letter is from two weeks ago. He’s already gone, sweetie. I’m…I’m sorry.” She sat next to me and let me lean on her. I remember muttering something about how I’ll never understand Samuel. She lifted my head up and whispered to me. “Sometimes the truth is better left unknown. It makes the art more beautiful.”

I write this late at night. Lily’s fast asleep in bed. She drove us back home after that realisation. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her for a lot of the journey. I opened up after we passed the meeting hall. I told her how I blamed myself for his episodes. I told her how I shouldn’t have left. I told her how he was right about the fact I didn’t care about the art. I probably exhausted her with my self-pity. I know it’s not my fault, but I can’t get past it in my mind. Lily just stirred, so I’ll have to finish this up.

Samuel, I wish you the best. You’re a unique mind in poetry, and the world needs to hear your voice. If you ever read this, I want you to know that I’m right behind you. I’m ready to support you again. I want to see that work of ours published. We’ll blow society’s mind with it.