Freight Life

There was nothing quite like the sounds of the cold steel passing below him.

That rhythmic clacking that thumped away into the night. Echoing out over the fields that stretched out around him.

Most evenings he'd know where he was going. He would have made sure to do a little bit of research, plan out his next move. When he needed to switch trains, where the next station was, or if there would be guards walking the yards, looking for his kind. But he had lost track of time. He had enjoyed the quaint little town he had spent the day in a little too much. It had reminded him of home - somewhere he hadn't been in some time. The faded colors of the houses, the neatly rowed neighborhoods, cobblestoned main street - even the older couples walking around hand in hand. It had been the closest to homesick he had ever felt.

But when he heard the squeak of the wheels against the rail and the horn blare, those feelings quickly fell away. He felt like a kid again. Running across the town, through back yards, under trees, over bushes, zigzagging between parked cars - a scene straight out of the finale of Ferris Bueller. By the time he got to the station, the last car was at the end of the platform. He had to give it all if he expected to make it. Running forward, his feet kept sinking into the loose gravel as the train continued to slip away. Determined, he pushed on harder, throwing everything he could into each step and finding his way onto the track itself, awkwardly bounding between the wooden planks. It may not have been pretty, but he was making up ground. It was going to be close. He was still faster than it was, but the train was quickly gaining speed. When his fingers finally wrapped around the rusted ladder, he jumped forward, pulling himself up, letting out a huge sigh of relief as he spread out on top of the last car. His legs were shaking, heart pounding, and his lungs were on fire. He really needed to quit smoking.

The sun had already set, falling behind the horizon some time ago, but the wind still felt refreshing as it whipped against his skin - almost at the temperature that brought out goosebumps. He had to hurry up. Soon it'd be too cold and he didn't want to traverse along the train in the dark - there had been too many tales of accidents for him to risk it - so he wrote faster.  It was something he did every night, just to document his adventures. Where he had stopped, what he had seen. The food he had managed to scrap together. What was up next. It helped him stay in touch with the world. The space between interacting with other people was too great, so he had turned to blank pages for company. But tonight, as he kept writing, he realized he didn't know what was next or where he was going.

So he just wrote. About anything. What was around him - the farms that covered the horizons. The miles upon miles of corn. How the stars were brighter that night than he could remember - almost playing hide and seek with him. Darting in and out between the wisps of clouds that hung overhead. Seeing the different graffiti tags on the cars, left by those who had come before him. The feeling of chipped paint below his hands and feet. How the swaying of the train helped him fall asleep on the nights he felt the most alone. Or that the movement of the train created a tunnel around him, shielding him from the other sounds of the outside world - but he loved that he could still hear the wind as it played through the fields around him - tickling the tall grass. It dulled everything else, allowing him to relax and take a step back from life.

When he was onboard, nothing else really mattered.

It was all just a passing blur.