mar23007

A slow start off the line, engines pulling the weight of long days at work, hopeful anticipation of an upcoming date, the uneasy excitement of new opportunity. Whole communities move past my left side: high schoolers practicing football drills while dreaming of trophies and the girl in calc;, lovingly buffed cars sitting pretty in a commuting parking lot; homes lacking in love but busting at the seams with rusted car parts and untended lawns. Retro train stations dot the line, sans serif art deco fonts and imploring commands. A lone bicycle sitting in the middle of a half empty parking lot, a child excited for the second floor of the double decker car.

Conductor with a sense of humor. Teenagers with hormones. Gentle rocking and bouncing seats. A great deal of time to think.

Trains remind me of the trip from campus to the airport, or from the airport to the campus, depending on which frame of mind I was in. Bittersweet, as traveling somewhere means leaving somewhere else, and neither is home yet. I think when I am moving. For some reason, I can write much better while sitting on a train, despite the fact that the physical position and screen greatly resemble my desk, or my couch. Movement stimulates thought, and momentum pushes pondering forward. I haven’t done this in a while, just type out my meanderings and my questions. Frankly, I’m amazed that my newly developed sense of self censoring hasn’t kicked in yet, but I guess should just take what I can get.

A girl sits on a bench, waiting for her southbound train. She has a jamba juice in hand, but I’m pretty sure it’s just a prop at this point, something to absently gesture with while subtly scanning the surroundings. Her face is pretty but she hasn’t figured that out yet, and the straw gets caught in her hair when she pushes it out of her face. School went well today, though she still doesn’t know when she’s going to tell her family about her boyfriend. She also doesn’t know when she is going to tell her boyfriend that she wishes he was a girlfriend, but one step at a time.

The woman to my right is type type typing on her new Macbook air, and has better posture than me. Feist’s “I feel it all” gently driving the train forward, as I wonder if I know more than I knew before. Could I run as fast as this train? No, I don’t think so…

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