The train sighs its way into Waverley Station like it’s just finished a twelve-hour shift and can’t be arsed anymore.
Fair enough.
I’ve been waiting four fucking years for this.
The doors open.
“Haw, cheers pal.”
As if the driver personally decided today’s the day.
One step.
That’s all it takes.
One stupid wee step.
Four years ago I was wandering through here pretending I belonged. Looking up at the roof, staring at the departure board, acting like I knew where I was going when really I was just killing time because I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving yet.
Now?
Now I’ve got keys in my pocket.
Mine.
No hotel key.
No AirBnB.
Or even a “Checkout before eleven.”
Mine.
Funny thing is, the station couldn’t care less.
Same pigeons marching about like they’re collecting wages.
Same lassie dragging a suitcase that’s definitely lost at least one wheel somewhere between York and here.
The same bloke in a suit storming across the concourse like the First Minister’s waiting on him to sign the budget. Relax, mate. You’re buying a bacon roll and missing the 10:18.
Same family standing underneath the departure board pointing in six different directions at once.
Nobody’s got a clue.
They’re just pretending louder than everybody else.
I love that.
There’s something comforting about a station.
Thousands of folk all convinced they’re the main character.
Everybody rushing. Apologising. Saying goodbye. Saying hello and thinking whatever’s happening to them today has never happened to anybody else before.
Meanwhile the pigeons are just wondering who’s dropping the first chip.
Smart bastards.
I walk towards the exit.
Slowly.
Why would I rush?
Rush where?
Home’s not going anywhere.
That’s a funny word, isn’t it?
Home.
Used to mean where I slept.
Now it means a place I chose.
A place that never asked me where I came from, what school I went to or what I was meant to become.
It just stood here for centuries waiting for somebody daft enough to fall in love with it.
Turns out that somebody was me.
Folk spend half their lives trying to look important.
Trying to look busy.
Trying to look like they’ve got everything worked out.
Bollocks.
I’d rather laugh too loud.
Take the wrong street just to see where it ends.
Talk absolute shite with a stranger for ten minutes.
Stand in the rain because I’ve forgotten a jacket again.
Walk for hours with nowhere particular to be.
Get things wrong.
Change my mind.
Start over.
Actually live instead of practising for a life that never arrives.
Because that’s the biggest lie anybody ever tells you.
That life’s waiting.
Waiting until you’ve got enough money.
Waiting until you’ve got the perfect job.
Or until you’ve got the perfect plan.
It’s not waiting.
It’s happening while you’re standing there convincing yourself you’ll start tomorrow.
Well, tomorrow can get to fuck.
I’ve stood on enough platforms watching life disappear into the distance.
Today’s different.
Today’s not about arriving in Edinburgh.
It’s about finally belonging to it.
Writer’s Note
This isn’t a prediction, a prophecy, or some weird futuristic documentary where I somehow know exactly what my life looks like in four years.
This is just me having a conversation with the imaginary version of myself who has somehow managed to get his act together, bought a flat in Edinburgh, and still somehow spends too much time standing in Waverley Station staring at trains.
Basically, I looked into the future, saw myself wandering around Edinburgh like I owned the place, and decided to write down what that probably feels like.
Will it happen exactly like this?
Probably not.
Will I still be an idiot wandering around Edinburgh thinking too much about everything?
Almost definitely.
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