Emily Peters
Feelings flit sideways into daydreams whenever you gaze out of a window seat.
It’s always peculiar to miss a town you hated:
the carved walls and harsh faces.
Those memories of breakdowns in food aisles
and derealization at traffic lights.
Is it mad how Greek tragedy bursts through the mundane?
Absolutely.
Is it perfectly normal?
You’d like to think so.
Well maybe that’s why you left,
to find somewhere where you can just exist.
To not feel like you’ve been casted in a melodrama,
when the stage directions clearly point towards realism.
So drop the mask for a while, and just look out the window…
Let yourself embrace the peace that you’ve ached for.
There are fields that blur into watercolours,
echoes of birdsong, and horses that stand still.
But were there horses galloping?
And how would it feel to ride them across those Monet fields?
Yes.
You could race across the edge of countryside,
a place so vast and yet so in-between.
In-between what you don’t know.
But you don’t care.
You could be free
with your hair pulled apart by the wind,
or perhaps let your hands raise up to that glorious sky.
Only for a second.
Just to feel that sacred feeling you spent your life running from:
when your hands graze the image of death
and adrenaline kisses your soul.
You’ve never felt more free.
But there are fields that blur into watercolours,
echoes of birdsong,
and horses that stand still.
There’s no need for them to gallop.
There’s nothing to chase, or to run from.
Just peace.
So why chase that chaos?
⸻
A nostalgia connoisseur—that’s how you’d like to think of yourself.
It’s always fun on a Sunday evening to lounge in a chaise-longue,
mind dripping with memories of your past torments.
Sample a taste of a wasted summer,
or of an autumn seasoned by longing.
There’s something so special about corrupting your senses
with tastes of near-forgotten feelings.
But you must remind yourself—
you left that town for a reason.
Or that job,
or that relationship,
or school,
or those dearest dreams…
And some part of you will always indulge in the chaos,
because maybe the chaos is when it all makes the most sense.
I mean,
how can you face your reality
when the world is too busy spinning around you?
There’s always comfort
being a tragic lead
in a one star show.
But you’re looking out on a window seat now,
with a world of possibility dancing across those Monet fields.
And just for a second—stop re-reading your lines.
They’re never going to fit with your character anyway:
she’s not a Greek hero,
or tragic ensemble member,
or girl who breaks down over lonely pigeons.
She’s just you.
Because you’re not in a Greek tragedy.
You’re not even in a school play.
You’re just here.
And here
there are fields that blur into watercolours,
echoes of birdsong,
and horses that stand still.
And for now that’s enough.
At least until the next stop…