a cross country train voyage
we existed outside of time,
at once both stationed almost perfectly still (with the exception of the swaying induced by the wheels beneath us tumbling across sturdy railways) and rushing… rushing… rushing… from nowhere to nowhere.
it would be almost 100 hours until we regained autonomy to translocate as we wished.
I had not expected to be so disconnected from the world — no internet connection, no phone signal — but it was a truly welcomed surprise. instead of worrying over emails and burying my nose in internet browser tabs (searching for who knows what), i lost myself in audiobooks and distant landscapes, marveling for hours at the hidden secrets of the great American midwest.
we crawled through commandeering mountains, sailed along dazzling waterfronts, meandered past sleepy country plains, and cruised by gorgeous and mystical forests. another sunrise; another sunset. I would fall in love again every time the sun kissed the horizon.
and I daydreamed deeply,
under honey-warm sunlight,
wondering more than once how often novelists embarked on such train rides to find focus and inspiration for their passion projects.
maybe i could try…
*
only another 72 hours until the end of this reverie. i’m simultaneously anticipating the moment i can dive under my own comforters and dreading my return to reality.
countless nights of insomnia. confined to a room slightly larger than the dimensions of a sleeping bag. ceaselessly rocking to the heartbeat of a train. it would all be over soon.
but so, too, would end the peaceful days of admiring mother nature’s handiwork from the comfort of a translating dormitory, indulging myself in endless journaling sessions, and living an idle existence that married profound thoughts and with even more profound conversations.
alas, change is the only truth and constant in life, and i have already done my best to conserve these precious movie stills in my memory.
maybe one day i could revisit this locomotive voyage in my mind.
maybe one day i could become a novelist.
