For four years now, I have tried to escape a place A mind A life For four years now did I get lost in the other so that I can project my crowded mind I always liked trains Looking at landscapes rush by and the blur of the speed For four years now I have tried to live my life like that, rushing by, blurring through, Burning fuel with passengers on and off, with and without tickets, some freeriding on my escape until they felt themselves no more. I think that coming "home" this time was different. Not the difference of the times before where I could not recognize myself in a place that has raised me to always leave, but in a sense that I did see myself, did recognize myself and the pain I endured between the confinement of familiarity and childhood. How everything that has shaped me was of course also my own doing and not just some external force breaking me down. My mistakes, I own them and it hurts. The weight of scarcely received forgiveness and a place that has moved on smoothly without my being there. Something I had thoughtlessly perceived as stagnant now ran flawlessly and at ease as if life was somehow figured out for the people that remained, as if they found a way to accept their existence in this society that still pains me wherever I go. Looking through childhood pictures I saw my family decaying and I wanted to hold on to the light on paper that captured moments of purity and wholesomeness, as if I would not carry them within me already, as if holding a material in my hands as proof could change me. It's little of me to believe that all the lonesomeness later could overshadow the light that was so obviously captured. Why can’t I find it in my heart? Why, in this place of light, is there only melancholy? Where, along those ways, have I become timid? It seems as if in the moment of recognizing my strength I had lost it, yes, hated it, as if I could never be loved for it, and as if my fear could save me from life. 'Survival mode' - "it’s weird". Rolling up like an insect pretending to be dead, avoiding any trouble and heartbreak that seems like the recurring death of soul and therefore, love. The inability to love, to give love, even simply receiving love, how is it fair trying to achieve that with another person - could I ever do it alone... I never really see the people I love, I pass them by. Why is there no time in a place that consists of nothing else, where space itself is constructed only by the time passing, a train wouldn’t run without it, and yet I fail to make it my own. Always behind on schedule, stopping quickly, running again, further, and further. Always delayed, always a disappointment to those at the station, getting on or waving goodbye. My cousin refusing to see me is only symbol of her protest. I feel as if she knows, saw right through me, past the idea of strength and throwing insults of weakness at me like my mother once did. Holding on to my father won’t save me from it because he cannot know who I am without hating himself. How should I love. I see in them the light I can bring, but it burns me up inside, I have been inhaling its ashes for 9 years now, contaminating my body, to say the least of my mind. Thoughts like a busy train station, crowded, polluted, loud of advertisement, misconstruction and manipulating thought and emotion. I either fall off the rail or I become outdated - maybe both. (But what I can’t do is love. I am thing. My thought is glass and steel and steam. My heart is fossil.) That is a lie. I love. Which is why I am lost. I love, which is why I run. I love, which is why I can’t bear, can’t hold on, can’t solve, can’t overcome, can’t leave. Places and time are nothing to the heart, it carries unlimited masses like an ant, without having to play dead, it’s always working, busy and eager. It’s the dissonance of the heart and mind, the heart and life, the heart and time.