And as he looked at each member of the scattered crew, all concealing the brink of their nervous breakdowns, and as he pondered the ghosts of failures and fears that they all carried with them on the journey, Lao thought about the messages.
He thought about the signs, and the inscriptions everywhere that become clear only when we see them. And like a thread in a labyrinth, they lead out to the open universe, where intuitions sparkle in the night sky of the mind. Our redemption is always there, here, waiting, in the air we breathe, in our heartbeats, in our thoughts. We only have to want it and the healing, quietly, begins. Home is here, in time, and in timelessness. Exile ends when we sense that home is everywhere that the soul can sing from. The messages have no greater power than the terror to bring the news of our awakening.
Where must the healing begin, the train thundered at Lao as he stared at his fellow passengers as they sat reading their books, their newspapers, staring out of the windows not into the passing landscape but into passing memories fears hopes dreams regrets sadnesses and losses.
Maybe the healing must begin within, thought Lao.