Time. It flies. Years back in college I remember writing up an essay on how it is a commodity no one can directly buy — something that we all can only lose. So what do I do with this thing that is only slipping through my fingers, with these days I’ll never get back? Well, for one, nowadays I am lucky enough to work. I worked hard to get the opportunity to work. Yet now that I work, time only seems to run ever faster and according to everyone around, it’s not planning on slowing down, ever.
For the past year I’ve sat on trains as opposed to airplanes. The only time I ever really feel at peace is when I sit on trains. I’m moving. Something is happening. So my brain doesn’t have to. Working has once and for all shown me, one will never be at peace with work. It’s never done. And when we get home, late in the evening, we then think how the work is not done. So I work to reach peace. I work a little more and a little more yet that finish line takes steps forward as I do. And thus, it is never done. So I sit on trains, let my body move and my mind rest.
I suppose this is escapism. The world rarely stops so in order to stop oneself, we must keep in motion. For the first time in my life I’ve got a home of my very own — a place I’ve furnished for I am staying. It’s rental and that’s the way it’ll stay. It’s paying money into someone else’s pocket but I’m free, free to leave, free to keep in motion. I’ve come to realise, during this short existence of mine, there’s not many things that petrify me as confinement. I’ve got no problem with holding promises. But if there’s no room to grow, I’m out the door. And then I’ll sit on an airplane, alone. These days I couldn’t be happier sitting on these trains, alone — free to go as I please.
This brings up another concern, a much more minor concern, but a concern, nevertheless: What if I drift through life, unable to stop, ever? What if I am unable to decide, to commit, to settle down, to compromise, to sacrifice even the teeniest part of my existence? But for now, I sit on trains, not thinking and just watching out the window like the melancholic being that I am.
For the past year I’ve sat on trains as opposed to airplanes. The only time I ever really feel at peace is when I sit on trains. I’m moving. Something is happening. So my brain doesn’t have to. Working has once and for all shown me, one will never be at peace with work. It’s never done. And when we get home, late in the evening, we then think how the work is not done. So I work to reach peace. I work a little more and a little more yet that finish line takes steps forward as I do. And thus, it is never done. So I sit on trains, let my body move and my mind rest.
I suppose this is escapism. The world rarely stops so in order to stop oneself, we must keep in motion. For the first time in my life I’ve got a home of my very own — a place I’ve furnished for I am staying. It’s rental and that’s the way it’ll stay. It’s paying money into someone else’s pocket but I’m free, free to leave, free to keep in motion. I’ve come to realise, during this short existence of mine, there’s not many things that petrify me as confinement. I’ve got no problem with holding promises. But if there’s no room to grow, I’m out the door. And then I’ll sit on an airplane, alone. These days I couldn’t be happier sitting on these trains, alone — free to go as I please.
This brings up another concern, a much more minor concern, but a concern, nevertheless: What if I drift through life, unable to stop, ever? What if I am unable to decide, to commit, to settle down, to compromise, to sacrifice even the teeniest part of my existence? But for now, I sit on trains, not thinking and just watching out the window like the melancholic being that I am.
