Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Thoughts from a wannabe-vagabond.

Just at the end of my street, beyond the overgrown weeds and gravel that line them, are train tracks.
I've lived here four and a half years now, and I'll never get tired of hearing the trains go by.

It's such a darkly romantic sound to me, especially when it's raining.
It conjures up a foggy image of a deserted depot in the middle of nowhere.
She sits restlessly on the bench having a cigarette to pass the time until his train arrives. He'll step down onto the platform, definitely wearing a chapeau and they'll stand there gazing at each other for a moment before embracing. The months and pain will fall away, and the train will chugga-chugga on to the next depot, the next ...

There's a loneliness to trains too. I always feel wistful when I hear that whistle blowing, like I'm missing out on where ever it's going. Like I want to be a vagabond stealing away in one of the freight cars, seeing the world, nature and America whiz by.

Tonight I was walking the track when the 6:45ish went by, just on the other side of the chain link fence. It was only a few cars, maybe 20, but as it whizzed by, I fought the urge to hop that fence and have a Dylan-esque journey of my own. But instead, I pensively formed this blog in my head and await the next train, the next yearning.

Will I be able to silence that one? I don't think I can forever ...

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