On the Train

Photo Credit: Djemima Duvernat

Photo Credit: Djemima Duvernat

Photo Credit: Djemima Duvernat

I have always loved riding the train. There is something about watching the world move through the windows while I sit still that makes me think about everything and nothing all at once. As houses blur past, I get a glimpse of people’s lives, and I get to decide whether it is a happy one or if I would want to be them in that specific moment. 

A woman hangs laundry in her backyard. Children play in a park I will most likely never visit. An old man sits on his porch with the newspaper. It reminds me that I haven’t read a newspaper in months. There is something quietly dignified about that, the ritual of it. Unfolding the paper, sitting on the porch, maybe watching the sun rise with a hot cup of coffee. I wonder if he notices the world moving past him the way I do, or if he has long made peace with staying still and being in the present. 

I catch these tiny frozen moments, and although I do not get the full picture, I can’t help but think that their lives must be simpler, lighter, easier than mine. Those children are acting on their innocence, and even though the watchful eyes over them might feel the weight of life, the children don’t know that, and they are not supposed to. If anything, gravity is the only thing keeping them on the ground. Otherwise, they would float in the air like feathers in the wind. 

I am insanely obsessed with road trips for that exact reason. I get to stare out the window for what feels like an infinite amount of time, where I get to imagine all the lives I could have or must have lived. I get to think about my life up until this very moment, the decisions that made me who I am today. 

I am a people pleaser, so I have been told. Why am I a people pleaser? My parents raised me to be obedient. Maybe a little too obedient, as it seems to get me in trouble now instead of praise. Different situations flicker in my mind just like the houses outside, moments where I could have been bolder but chose not to because I had to be obedient, or maybe I was paralyzed by fear. How strange that the very thing that once earned me love became the thing that now costs me my soul. While on the topic of paralyzing fear, I do remember my mother telling me once that fear was a liar. Sometimes I still wonder what exactly she meant. Did she mean that the things we fear rarely come true? Or that fear disguises itself as wisdom when it is really just cowardice? I never got to ask her, and somehow that question has managed to follow me across oceans. 

The train rattles, pulling me out of my thoughts just as we pass a dog park. I love dogs; they are so cute. Although I think I might like cats even more because they cuddle more easily, or do they? With a dog, I guess I would be inclined to go for walks more often, but the food could be expensive. Speaking of food, what am I going to have for dinner tonight? I should eat something healthy, so maybe something with rice, something simple. I miss my mother’s cooking. Who would have thought that thinking about what to make for dinner could be so exhausting? I do feel tired, I could take a nap, no, I don’t want to miss out on the scenery. 

Fear of missing out is a real thing. Opportunity cost, I guess. Whatever I choose to do with my time now, there are plenty of other things I could be doing at the same time. At least I learned something in economics class, if only my professor could see me now. 

Behind me, I hear a mother say, “I love you” to her child. I have a mother, too, although I really wish she were here with me right now, telling me she loves me. Is what I am feeling jealousy? It certainly feels like it. How could I not be jealous of these children around me freely getting their mother's love and presence? I hope they don’t take it for granted. It is easy to take certain things in life for granted, especially when you’ve had them for too long. Love is often like that, invisible when it surrounds you, and a big black hole once it is gone. 

The train enters a tunnel, and suddenly everything is black, just like me, I guess. It feels weird to think of myself as black. I never thought about that until I moved to the United States. I always knew I was a woman, not that I could really forget it when I was raised in the literal “women should be in the kitchen” culture. 

No, but seriously, what am I making for dinner? I should probably meal prep so that I don’t have to have this conversation in my mind all the time. Would this be considered me talking to myself, although no one can hear me or judge me, but can I judge myself? I read somewhere that not everyone has this voice in their head. I wonder what that feels like. It is probably weird not to have it. I am so used to the voice in my head that I probably would be a completely different person without it. Maybe my inner thoughts would be quieter and emptier too. 

We are still in the dark tunnel. I hate darkness. Some people fear it; I simply despise it. However, every time I come out of them, I always think of the “light at the end of the tunnel” saying. What is my light at the end of the tunnel moment? I always feel like my life is in a constant state of darkness. Okay, too sad, maybe I should think about happy things so that I don’t burst into tears in this very public space. 

As the train finally drives out of the darkness, the landscapes change. The city turns into fields, then bodies of water, then fields again. My thoughts keep moving as fast as the train, even as I try to hold them still. That is the thing about train rides, they are the safest way to let my mind loose. As I sit still, everything inside and around me is in motion, and I can’t stop nor do I want to.  

When the scenery becomes too dull to look at, I turn my attention to the sky and make funny shapes out of the clouds. I couldn’t begin to count the number of times I have wished upon a useless star to become a cloud. Visualizing the places I would float over, or maybe becoming a bird, but then I would have to find food. I think clouds are better. I have always loved nature because of how beautiful it is; there must be someone behind it all. No matter how smart we are as human beings, there is no way we could make something so divinely gorgeous. 

Oh yes, nature is gorgeous. So many times I have lain on the grass, contemplating the beauty of this magnificent sky. Clouds always brought mixed feelings to my stomach. On one hand, they are beautiful, and I envy them. But on the other hand, they remind me of snow. Snow and I have what one could call a toxic relationship. For one, it is pure, white, and so pretty. But it is also cold, and once the humans wake up, it turns into this ugly brown slush. It always makes me think how we children go from being pure, innocent, to dirty slush once that innocence is brutally taken away. That is usually when the cold slips in as the warm pink bubble has popped. 

I always thought that it was quite lonely how each snowflake falls from the sky by itself. And although they reunite on the ground, what if they get separated? Yes, I know inanimate objects don’t have emotions. Or do they? As a child, I used to think that my dolls could feel pain, but I no longer believe that anymore. Why is it so hard to believe now? I am not talking about science-proven things; I am talking about why we don’t wish upon stars anymore. When did we decide that magic or imagination required proof?

A teenager across from me scrolls through their phone, completely unaware of what is going on around them. They smile at something on the screen, and I wonder what it is. A text from a friend? A funny video? Young love? I hope it is love because love tends to make people smile like the one I am currently witnessing. Unguarded, unconscious, like their face just forgot to be careful for a moment. 

I must admit I am yet to be struck by Cupid’s arrow. It should not be painful; I heard the arrow itself is not, but the aftermath might be. I remember smiling like that. It feels like centuries ago. When did I become so heavy? Well, not literally, I hope. Am I not fat? I mean, can I be the judge of that, or does it have to be someone else? Other people’s opinions can be so cruel sometimes. It is hard since we have been raised to acknowledge other people’s opinions as helpful feedback, especially from family members. I think family betrayal is worse than breakup pain. Then again, how would I know? I have never been broken up with. Knock on wood.

The water glows under the warm sun. It makes me think about a wishing well. As unbelievable as that may sound, I have never wished upon one. When I moved to the United States, I learned really fast that even wishes had a price. I am not talking about monetary value; I am talking about a mental and physical tax where wishes are held over your head. Whether it is as simple as wanting to be a cloud or a bird, or complicated wishes that sound unrealistic as soon as they leave my lips. 

We can’t bring back the dead, we can’t go back in time, and I can’t taste my mother’s food. I can’t see my brother grow up, and no matter how much I wish he wouldn't forget me, there is only so much I can wish for. They say let go of the things you can’t control and control the ones you can. What if you don’t have control over anything in your life, not even your own death? 

I used to think that I could never survive without my family, especially my siblings. You know what, though, when they say “you are stronger than you think,” they mean it. The one good thing we have as animals is adaptability; no matter what it is, we will adapt eventually. Now I can’t guarantee you will still be the same person. I know I am not, but you will adapt accordingly. 

The train is getting colder, or maybe my heart is the cold one. The only thing visible from the window is just trees. Big, tall, strong-looking trees. I should aspire to become a tree instead of a cloud. At least one of those could take me through the harsh reality of life. 

The sun outside looks warm; it reminds me of when father used to take me to the pool and let me float in his arms for hours. I loved it, it was always the perfect temperature with the sun shining down on me and the cool water beneath me. If only he taught me how to swim on one of those trips to the pool instead of the endless floating. I sound ungrateful, but God only knows what I would give to see him one more time. To kiss his cheeks while complaining about his week-old beard. To dance on his feet in the living room to our favorite music. We always seem to have the same taste in music. Another harsh reality in my life is that all my comforting songs just make me miss him more. Should I read? I need a distraction, not that I think it will stop my mind from spiraling. 

The Catcher in the Rye is my ultimate favorite book. It might be an unpopular opinion, but man, do I love it. Holden and I would have been such good friends if we met in real life. He and I have a common understanding when it comes to people being “phony.” I call it a mask because we all walk around wearing them, including me. And between you and me, I think Holden was wearing one as well. I would be a super-phony if it were a thing, because I have so many masks that I rotate throughout the day. Some are for work, some are for strangers, and some are for the people who think they know me. The exhausting part is not the masks themselves, but it is remembering which one you’re wearing and for whom. The horrible thing about the masks is that once you have used them long enough, the real you disappears. You don’t know who you are anymore. 

Perfection is my arch-nemesis. Perfectionism and I have been in a dance battle together ever since I moved to the United States, and spoiler alert, I am not winning. I was told so many times to not cause trouble for myself when my parents sent me off, which in my mind translated as: be perfect, or you have failed us. How exhausting it has been, trying to be perfect all the time. I know better now, but my twelve-year-old self did not, and she went through hell and back before she figured that out. No one is perfect, but we are told to be, and so we spend our whole lives apologizing for the distance between who we are and who we were supposed to become. This is why I love road trips, whether on a train or a car, all I have to do is stare out the window and the world and mind can have a dance battle until I reach my destination.