tracks

ImageThe worst part about train tracks is also the best: one rarely knows where they go.

There are destinations – points of interest – where folks say they lead, but this information is usually unbeknownst to a guy standing on a street above a tunnel, looking down the tracks as they turn a corner. Railroad employees only know this stuff. 

I am not a railroad employee.

Consequently, I find a view of train tracks symbolic of life. My sense of wonder is briskly triggered when I see two tracks crossing or running side-by-side like two old friends reuniting before – once again – going separate ways. Life has a way of mixing the familiar with the unfamiliar, destinations past with destinations future. I admire this characteristic.  

“Are we the train or the tracks?” I wondered tonight as I walked above a set of dueling rails. One implies we go where we want; the other leaves us with little choice in the matter. While I’ve served time as the train and explored freely as tracks, I’ve never believed we’re guaranteed, promised or sentenced to either.

When we allow ourselves to be dictated, as a train on tracks, we do so by choice. Even then, we’ve only ourselves to blame for ending up nowhere.   

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