The Curiousness of Train Tracks and Other Mysteries Surrounding Thus

Dear whosoever that may chance upon this,

In that ever so odd way that the world changes from season to season, I have found that I've changed in my diligence in maintaining this blog. From a once was daily ritual to that now of a monthly. It is to no small surprise that I currently find that I have barely 3 people visiting this squalid journal anymore.

But enough about blogs/online journals/logs/whatnots because there is a certain curiousness to train tracks that plagues me. Or rather, more of the platforms than the rails themselves. They say that city live changes the small town boy. That prolonged exposure to civilization hollows out the fragile's soul. I suppose that I am no exception to that rule as 5 years in the big city has vastly myopized (there is no such word in the dictionary but if you were to take myopic and make it into a verb, you would get myopized) my view of the world as a whole. To say the very least, I find myself becoming ever so cynical as the days pass.

But there are still wonder in the big city that make me wonder. Like the curiousness of train tracks or rather the platforms at train stations. It's curious how the tracks call out to those who wait by them for their coaches to carry them to their destinies.

To the frail fragile things of yesterday gone and today forgotten, the tracks call for them to step out into their loving embrace with the promise of lifting them out of their very shackles of misery and pain with one last act of sacrifice. A vicious ritual of self mutilation with the swiftest surest promise of end by the very instrument that transports tens and thousands of people daily to the wherevers beckon and calls in appealing thougts.

To the strong, they dare them to stand at the very edges to test their nerves. The steely stay while the less than steely back off when the trains pull in. More oft than none, the steely nerves are broken not by the swift whooshing of wind made by a passing train but rather that of the fear of a slap on the wrist by the station wardens and a hefty fine.

To the cautious who have stayed alive thus this long by being, so to speak, cautious, the tracks and the dangers they hold have no appeal to them for it is neither their wish nor want to tempt the cold grasp of death (which ironically will find them sooner or later).

But for me, the tracks hold a different very different appeal. I am still at large a small town by in heart and there are still some wonders in this world that call out to me. I like to go places. And what better way to go somewhere than by train.

And by that, the rails will take me.