Ignoring the fact that it has no engineman, no plan, no back-up, and it's passengers couldn't keep up.
My life feels like an empty train with no destination.
It's goal is to move away as far as it could with no hesitation .
Maybe I'm supposed to be the one driving.
If I do, then I might as well just forget about arriving.
Actually, can this thing even be on auto-mode? I see no concrete railroad track.
So far, I've been letting it do it's job and fall back.
But lately it's moving so fast, I kind of want to go back.
Just a while ago I was in station twelve, I got distracted and wasn't aware of the train leaving. Ever since, I've been wandering around, grieving. From time to time I would get glimpses of my train. I would call out for it, but it refused to stop or even slow down. So I chose a town, and settled in. It was called town sixteen. Before I got comfortable, my train came by to fix it's engine. And I was getting sick from my routine. So I decided to get in, and it was great.
Little did I know that this joy was yet to fade.
I got to see all sorts of forgotten views: passion, friends, peace, God...
Little did I know that the temporary serenity was a fraud.
As we approached station seventeen, the train was gaining speed. "Slow down!" To the thickheaded machine I plead. I was not keeping firm ground. That before I knew it, I fell to the ground.
Out of the train I was shot.
My face felt hot.
Covered in blood and broken glass.
I have completely ruined someone's freshly cut grass.
I was so embarrassed and miserable, my own train threw me out.
Full of self-doubt
I decided to out run that thickheaded train.
I ran and ran and ran...
but in vain.
After some struggle, I came up with a simple plan:
to follow the most used railroad.
The freshly traced marks on the sand, I followed.
Thus, I arrived to the common land.
Everyone was so busy, going in all different directions at impossible speed. That no one bothered to give me a hand.
Not that I cared anyways.
For I too had my ways…
Ways that I hoped to discover anytime soon.
