public transport fills me with the strangest kind of nostalgia. which, i understand, is a very angsty, YA novel thing to say, but it’s true. pulling out of the bus or train station and watching my hometown pull away into backwoods and decrepit houses and old farmland is strange.
right now we’re passing by the quarry that’s hidden from the highway by a mountain of asphalt. you can’t tell it’s there from the road, but in a plane, suddenly the expanse of quarry and mill and other foreign mechanics are laid out beneath you and you wonder what else is hidden from view on your daily commute.
you can see it from the train tracks too. you can’t see everything, but it’s a different angle that’s needed. a different, more eco-friendly angle.
it’s strange to hear the train whistle as the trees flash by and realize that it’s probably the same whistle i heard that first night in my room. the sound has been called romantic, or cold, but it reminds me mostly of home.