There's a certain melancholy as I look out the window the train swaying slowly, billowing smoke as it goes my thoughts, clouded as they are, reforming me I close my eyes and imagine the fields passing by.
I try to bring up the happiest memory I have it's somewhere in there, formless and drifting yet all I can remember is the path that I have traveled all I can remember is the path that I have to travel.
I've been on this road for far too long drifting from one destination to another searching for an oasis in this endless desert I am a traveler grown weary of the same old mirage.
The cabin rattles and pulls me out of my stupor I go back to staring at those endless farms this momentary respite from the journey has slowly become the fondest memory of mine.
Smiling, I laugh at my own childishness of wishful thinking, of dreaming about my goals my destination is not at the end of these tracks rather, it's these fields that I am passing through.