Train Tracks

These days I feel almost too comfortable with myself. The ease of monotony soothes like a warm cup of Lipton yellow label, freshly brewed after a meal.

I know the tracks on which this train advances. I know the faces of the passengers aboard. I know the names of the destination and all the stops between here and there. But my problem remains that I never preferred trains at all, for all trains are inherent flawed. They are bound by the predetermined curves of the rail, each bend of the steel foreseen and planned for. Fleeting images of people and homes fade too quickly to be real. Yet, I know they must be, for we are all fleeting images to someone. Who am I to be a frame of reference for their existence? I grow restless in this window seat.