The Song of a Nightingale

There is a certain beauty in waiting all alone at a train station. The time is three o’clock in the morning, and it is just you and your solitude. The fluorescent lights cast a glow that makes you see everything in a different color. You begin to ponder, “why am I even here?” But deep down, you know your reason. It gnaws at the back of your mind, but you are too enervated to care. You slouch on the bench, arms slack beside you. The emptiness in the air does not necessarily unnerve you. This is simply a norm. 

You thought you would feel free, leaving what was once drowning you. Yet the pain remains. Anxiety creeps into your arteries as you wait for the shrill of the train whistle, signaling your impending departure. Uncertainty fogs the windows of the station as you rhythmically tap your toes against the pavement, anticipating. Seeking reprieve from your thoughts, you look up. The lights pollute the sky, making it unclear to see the emanating deep hue of blue. You squint your eyes and focus, peering at the stars. Distracting you from your rumination, you hear a song. 

One that is familiar to you, reminding you of your youth.  Suddenly, the stars blur as your mind gets pulled into a memory.

. 

You still remember the way laughter and sunlight seemed to echo off the play structures as afternoon climbed above the rolling hills, warm and unhurried. In the middle of a grass field, you lay out a blanket, gold stretching across you. As clouds drift across the sky, you trace their movement with your index finger. “This cloud looks like a snake,” you remark.

But a child’s voice cuts in, “It’s not a cloud, it’s a stratocumulus!”

You regret opening your mouth because you know you will soon hear a never-ending series of jargon.  Your brother was such a nerd. 

  One you will miss, you realize, beneath the nostalgia. 

A flock of birds cuts across the path you’ve been tracing. They circle around your head until the rhythmic flapping blurs into the horizon. 

“Starlings… no swallows!” 

A piercing chirp makes you perk up. As it comes closer, its pitch rises and falls, strangely soothing you like a never-ending lullaby. As if being pulled by a force, the small bird flies by. Alone and distant, the shadow stretches thin before dissolving into the fields like dew evaporating. 

“A nightingale…” 

“Why is it all alone?” you ask. 

“Nightingales travel alone, but they only sing at night. Duh. ”

“Huh.” 

  The same song lulls in the back of your mind, but the smell of summer air is replaced with disinfectant from the floor that wafts through the station, suddenly overwhelming your nose. 

You recognize the nightingale perched on top of the station sign. Alone, singing, like you have seen before. The bird appears to be your kindred spirit. So liberated, able to fly anywhere and everywhere. You resonate with the bird’s seclusion in ways you cannot explain. 

But sometimes loneliness does not look like solitude. Sometimes it looks like a flock. Your entire life, you have been anchored. Not by a place. Not by problems.

Anchored by people. People who flew together yet never noticed the one wingbeat that didn’t quite belong. People consumed by their own clamor, they never heard the quiet song beside them.

Always unnoticed, yet chained to the nest.  

From afar, you can hear the train’s whistle, interrupting your thoughts. Minutes pass by. No train in sight. Time tends to move more slowly at this time of day. 

It finally arrives. Upon entering, you look at your reflection in the door window. Tired eyes and a hollow face stare at you in return. 

A look of isolation and yielding.

The feeling of liberation does not appear immediately. In fact, it does not appear at all. You worry, “Was this the right decision?” But doubt is what kept you here. Indifference shall be the one to set you free. After tonight, those people will forget who you are, and you will become nothing more than a voice that feels strangely familiar. Like the sound of a nightingale. 

As you sit down on the sticky, plastic seats, you stare out at the silent train station. The last of your past life. The train begins to roll forward, the station becoming a blur. The silhouette of the bird lingers at your periphery, slowly disappearing into the distance until it dissolves into nothing. 

Freedom pulses gently through your veins as your eyes close, and you leave behind all that you know.