I am haunted by railways.
At the beginning, two steel tracks race into a distant mass of meadow and masonry. Then whistles blare. There is a gap in the platform, some hurried gaits, lamp posts. The space between sleepers begin to shrink inside the steady beat of a metronome. The station speeds away and the gap and throng and posts disappear, replaced by a gushing current of emerald and burgundy. Finally, the only constancy is the thrumming of contact lines.
Outside the carriage, the world stopped. Quietness crept through abandoned fountains, empty bridges, and the drip of coffee in early morning. Pangolin and I caught up with tales from the last two weeks before making our way back to the tracks. The tracks are something I hold sacred, as any early waker who takes the 6am Boston-Providence train and 9am return must know.
The metronome whirs back into life. I can make out many houses, and I remember, like Jelly, that each split-second glimpse is a glimpse into years of someone's story. And it must be the same on the other side, too, watching trains roar past. When my room faced west on the Hill, I used to watch red lights from the Metropolitan line stream across the night, meandering like a glowworm near the horizon. And in those carriages are passengers, perhaps not unlike myself, staring back at the Hill and away in an instant.
I lean my head against the train as tracks retreat on this grey morning. To either side of this window, all are travellers. A railway conveys me, so I graze everything but am touched by none. Fleet is the foot that burdens the boot.