Trains
Written 25 March, 2019.
Trains have always brought me comfort. They have always been in route, powering through my life. Even in my subconscious, dream-state they've been there. As I lay in bed, between the sheets in New Hampshire- Choo-Choo -the releasing of steam and sound bellow from the tracks a mile and a half away from my pillow. Usually it's around 3 a.m.
As kids we would walk over the tracks on our way to the ice cream or candy shop. On the way we might stop to study the dried up frog that now baked on the heat of the pavement, too slow or too oblivious of the Chevy or Ford coming its way. We would test who was the tallest or could jump the highest by slapping our hands on the grey structure that held the warning lights- that only happened once or twice though. Throughout high school, the tracks marked the “-halfway there!” mark on Lauren and my journey from school, as we opted out on the bus and neither of us had license drive. Our feet carried us four, if it was nice six, miles home each day.
As I write this, this little piece of whatever. Its just constant stream of writing that I am not going to edit or change, just let it flow in all mash sequence. Maybe it's a writing exercise. A love letter, or a "I like you" letter, to trains. Anyways, whatever it is, I am inbound on one. Currently listening to a baby babble, a passenger's way too loud rap music, another one gossiping. All of us riding the same line at the same time of day, only to get off at the final destination and part, most likely never to see each other again. Only to hop on another train and hear the next passenger's gossip, seeing if maybe they'll intertwine.
I do that sometimes. Not with gossip but with books. If someone is reading a book in front of me I'll read a page or two trying my best to memorize it for my next ride, where I'll sit behind another intellect, read a page of theirs and combined the stories. It's most interesting when you have a Fault In Our Star's-esque teen romance and a more mature, sophisticated book, about finding peace as a single mother.
I have a splitting headache but somehow the muffled rumble and the subtle jolts and vibrations act as white noise and relax me. I try to tune out the now crying baby, the girls continuous music.
I've started to bond with the train and the stations. I chase the North Station pigeons and they chase me. I have met a woman from Iceland there, inquired her about how Puffins taste as its a delicacy of some sort over there. We are still friends to this day after finding each other via social media and bonded over Johnny Cash. I read the writing on the bathroom walls; the crushes, political stances, cusses that are changed into other phrases like "mother ducker", and even a poem about a sunset. I don't always use the facilities, just view the writing on the walls or the etched mirror that reassures you "YOU LOOK FINE!". After all someone wrote it hoping it'll be read.
Trains have always brought me comfort. They have always been in route, powering through my life. Even in my subconscious, dream-state they've been there. As I lay in bed, between the sheets in New Hampshire- Choo-Choo -the releasing of steam and sound bellow from the tracks a mile and a half away from my pillow. Usually it's around 3 a.m.
As kids we would walk over the tracks on our way to the ice cream or candy shop. On the way we might stop to study the dried up frog that now baked on the heat of the pavement, too slow or too oblivious of the Chevy or Ford coming its way. We would test who was the tallest or could jump the highest by slapping our hands on the grey structure that held the warning lights- that only happened once or twice though. Throughout high school, the tracks marked the “-halfway there!” mark on Lauren and my journey from school, as we opted out on the bus and neither of us had license drive. Our feet carried us four, if it was nice six, miles home each day.
As I write this, this little piece of whatever. Its just constant stream of writing that I am not going to edit or change, just let it flow in all mash sequence. Maybe it's a writing exercise. A love letter, or a "I like you" letter, to trains. Anyways, whatever it is, I am inbound on one. Currently listening to a baby babble, a passenger's way too loud rap music, another one gossiping. All of us riding the same line at the same time of day, only to get off at the final destination and part, most likely never to see each other again. Only to hop on another train and hear the next passenger's gossip, seeing if maybe they'll intertwine.
I do that sometimes. Not with gossip but with books. If someone is reading a book in front of me I'll read a page or two trying my best to memorize it for my next ride, where I'll sit behind another intellect, read a page of theirs and combined the stories. It's most interesting when you have a Fault In Our Star's-esque teen romance and a more mature, sophisticated book, about finding peace as a single mother.
I have a splitting headache but somehow the muffled rumble and the subtle jolts and vibrations act as white noise and relax me. I try to tune out the now crying baby, the girls continuous music.
I've started to bond with the train and the stations. I chase the North Station pigeons and they chase me. I have met a woman from Iceland there, inquired her about how Puffins taste as its a delicacy of some sort over there. We are still friends to this day after finding each other via social media and bonded over Johnny Cash. I read the writing on the bathroom walls; the crushes, political stances, cusses that are changed into other phrases like "mother ducker", and even a poem about a sunset. I don't always use the facilities, just view the writing on the walls or the etched mirror that reassures you "YOU LOOK FINE!". After all someone wrote it hoping it'll be read.
