Home

Something about being on a train makes thinking about things more fun. And people more beautiful. And the world more interesting.

A middle-aged asian man carrying a beautiful tree branch. A couple huddled over an Ipod. A young white mother with her mixed-race daughter (mixed-race children are so gorgeous, I think). A man wheeling a bicycle down the aisle. I wonder where they're all going, who loves them, whether they listen to M. Ward, what their first word was, whether they like malt vinegar on their french fries. I can't tell whether I think difference or similarities are more wonderful.

I really like traveling alone the best. Much more than traveling with other people. It's the silence I like, the pensivity (is that a word?), the ease of thoughts. I think I feel emotions more deeply when I'm by myself.

I can't wait to be home.

I'm listening to Neil Young's "There Comes a Time." It's a good album for moving. Trains or cars or planes or even walks. I think music that's good for moving is the best kind of music.

I love moving.

I think I would like to take a train to no destination. I think often about how wonderful it might be to be lost, but I wonder if I could really like it. If I could walk off the train at a stop and not know where I am or how I'll get back. I wonder if I could enjoy meeting people, or if I'd be too preoccupied trying to get back. If I could listen to their story or if I could only ask them how to get home. But what is home anyway? But a name. Isn't everywhere home?