Back-tracking
and gloves, but in front of the car with the windows shaped like portholes. Why would a train have windows shaped like portholes? I do not know, but I like trains and everything is all right. Alright or all right? All right it is. The train keeps me focused, though my mind is not. My mind is not all right. And yet I am right. On the train right now, shuffling along the rails, and several years later I find that I’m not plugging my ears as firmly when the conductor shouts “ALL ABOARD!” like he is some important person who everyone must listen to or face the threat of not entering the vehicle. The sounds are not bothering me as much, but the people still do. The passenger across the aisle from me, three rows up to the left, one seat in, smells like a rotten salami sandwich covered in raw eggs. I guess that’s one of the costs of riding on the train, the sheer possibility of someone like him being on, too. I cannot ar-ti-cu-late why I love trains so much. I like to watch the outside world from here, safe and enclosed in a moving passageway that glimpses into the inescapable valleys and mountainside like the pioneers on the Oregon Trail that couldn’t view past the horizon. The bump-ity of the car relaxes me in a way I try to describe with words like “soothing” and “calming,” but it just cannot manage to convey the feeling of security while being enclosed in a moving box that ironically could meet its doom. Ironic, another fun word. The book I was reading last month used that word quite often. I guess it means humor that comes from implementing words that suggest the antithesis. Another great word. I suppose I must enjoy irony because it’s ironic I love things that do not make sense, but yet it bothers me when adults’ words don’t match the actions of their facial expressions, which I still have trouble understanding. My senses are sometimes mixed up. I don’t really see things, but rather hear them. I listen to the world’s frustration. I smell their repulsion for people who are not like everyone else. I taste their disappointment that I am in so many ways miles behind my peers, and also light-years ahead of them. Sure my feelings don’t sound right or come out the way I mean them to, but I know me. I know what I love and hate. I know what brings me joy and pain. I know what I want and dread. For now I am on a train and everything seems to be right for a minute. No matter the salami-smelling guy or longggggg train ride – did I mention it was estimated to take seven hours, twelve minutes and forty-three seconds to reach the destination? I see time disappear as we pass each pine tree, a second lost and a new experience gained. Now it’s 2012. I’m arriving at the station with my laptop in tow, the vehicle easing to a halt and everything coming to an end. I have to make sure I did not leave my textbook on the seat. No, it’s in my hands. That’s good. I start to head off and can now appreciate the little details of the train, like the ring-like pattern of wheels on the carpet and the glowing lights on the side of the aisle. I guess they illuminate at night, but I have not been on board that late into the day. I exit the train, more secure with myself. Those sights, smells, sounds, feelings
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