The whistle blows, the scenery engulfs for a split second in a rush of snow, it is winter. The blistering cold of the north winds and the sweet smell of burnt chocolate and rubber fills the air. I, sitting ever so confidently with my three dollar hot cocoa and water, am watching it all roll over the hills of Illinois and starting a new when it hits a plateau.
It is neither the past or the future, but whether it is the present, well, I’ll leave that for you to decide. I pass thousands and thousands of houses with smoke pillowing from their quaint brick-layered chimneys. Everyone seems content with their everyday lives, but I suppose everything seems that way when you’re always moving. It’s funny, I guess, thinking about dancing, plastic flamingos on a stranger’s lawn or even a mischievous gnome in your own. Someday I’d like to own a boat so that I can float away in unknown waters whenever I desire. Someday.
More houses, trees, snow. In just four hours I would have traveled worlds over by the window seat of a train. I started in building-to-building windy city Chicago, one ant amongst millions in a colony, when I arrive I’ll be in, sure enough, Kirkwood, MO. The towering trees, swaying grass, and hometown folks will greet me with waves and lingering smiles. The sun will warm my cheeks. I’ll drive miles to get to my homestead in which I’ll take a moment to socialize and reflect the fruit of my journey. Perhaps, I’ll even read this passage aloud. Anything is possible when you’re in a different world.