Windows 3.1

Night and Day I gaze out my window. From sixteen stories up I can see many things: a parking lot I rarely gaze at, forests I often scan. A bayou that I'm curious about: just what are you a tributary to? Roads with cars so distant they resemble junebugs, the dumbest of all the insects. An endless blue canvass with clouds that constantly paint new pictures across the horizon. I see refineries that belch thick black smoke by day, but twinkle so beautifully at night, a floating sea of lights soft and pale. And trains on a track, heading god only know where. And I won't lie, it pisses me off that here in my soundproof booth, I’m able to gaze on those trains, but unable to hear the rattle of engine on tracks, the creak of creosote soaked ties thick and sturdy, the mournful blues of a whistle piercing the night. I catch myself staring at these rambling freight trains, curious as to their destination, hearing in my head all the lonesome train whistles of my youth. I would be guilty of the sin of omission if I didn't admit that almost every time I catch myself idly watching a passing freighter I wish I were on it. I have to admit that some part of me, buried deep down next to the core, wants to be on that train, that one right there. Riding the 12:15 out of Houston, with my pack and bedroll, rolling out of this town and on down the road to somewhere, anywhere. I would that I were being slowly lulled to sleep by the rattle of wheel on rail, serenaded by those aching, lonesome, promising blues of a whistle crying out in the dark, on my way to whatever comes after here.