I love trains. New and old. Maybe I’ve seen too many movies where great stories develop in moving trains. But there is something about the ongoing movement, the following of a predefined path that soothes me and quiets my mind.
I sit on a train as if I were on a divan, with an unseen analyst behind me, trying to make sense of my words. I rumble. I observe. I listen. The landscape continually changes and I can’t grasp it; there’s no stopping even if I want.
The train teaches me about patience. I usually overhear uninteresting conversations. The teenagers who pretend to know so much about love. The infant who plays with his hands as if they were the greatest mystery to be solved. The man in a tie who has to have a business conversation over his phone.
I experience an out-of-body moment where I see myself sitting there, alone, so small compared to this steel machine that insists on carrying me somewhere. My body becomes one with the motion (I wish it was 1930).
Faces pass me by quickly and I wonder about each person’s reasons to exist. So many stories to be heard. So many small worlds like mine, yet big to some. I will probably never see them again. I try to retain a picture of the face of the pretty young woman with blue eyes and straight brown hair. I’d like to capture a snapshot of the old man begging for money, uncertainty in his eyes.
I see my face reflected in the window. I like what I see. There is perfection in just being alive. There is beauty in eyes that question what they see. I’ve come to cherish this uniqueness that is me.
Keep moving train. 
Take me to nowhere.
