Life in the Blur
A winters day.
The river flows under ice.
The landscape blurs past as you travel
on the train.
There is a rhythm to it.
The travel. The need for it.
The peace of it, the going, the knowing
that the where matters less
than the movement. The newness,
the familiar left behind,
the passing of fresh landscapes.
You become a stranger,
anonymous, an explorer,
content to live in the blur.
About this poem
I am not sure why I love travel so much. Any travel. It is a strange mix of losing myself and finding myself. It is neither a running towards or a running from. I feel alive and slightly lost, in a expectant way. Truly, I could travel my whole life and not miss home. (I might miss my cat.). I have wondered from time to time if travel IS my home. Does that make sense? Well, a lot of what I think, doesn’t.
The picture was taken from the train that travels from Vermont to New York City,